


The Gold-Soaked Afternoon Comes Slow

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Falling In Love Again, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Musician Louis, Teacher Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-01-05 19:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21213659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: "Honey, hey, it's me," Harry soothes, softly brushing the hair from Louis' forehead, his watery smile waning the longer Louis stares at him with eyes that hold none of the familiar, overwhelming affection he's used to. Even during the worst arguments they've had, Louis has never looked at Harry as blankly as this. Though, Louis has never woken up from a medically induced coma before."I'm sorry,” Louis finally says slowly, wincing as he tries to shift in the bed. “Do you think I'm someone else?"Harry's stomach plummets, his pulse quickening. Something's wrong."I think you're Louis Tomlinson. My fiancé," he smiles confusedly. Harry reaches for Louis’ hand but Louis snatches it back, brows furrowed."I don't have a fiancé," he insists, disbelief written all over his bruised face. "I think you have the wrong room, mate."or: on the night of Harry and Louis' engagement party, Louis suffers a nasty fall, turning the happy, settled life they’ve spent years building completely upside down, as Louis is left without the past five years of his memoryꟷincluding his entire relationship with Harry.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Into The Airwaves' by Jack's Mannequin.
> 
> Hi!! I don't know what happened, it got angsty in my brain and I finally got to writing this because I haven't been able to get back into writing much lately. A part two and three will be coming and then an epilogue. It's mostly fluff up until the very end of this chapter where there's blood mentions and it could be upsetting to some readers so just an FYI. This is gonna get rocky, so strap yourselves in, folks. (But there will be a happy ending, I promise!) xx
> 
> (also any medical stuff is not legit! i'm not a doctor!)

It’s a Friday, the fourteenth of September, and sheets of rain are colliding hard with the double-glazed windows of Northlake Primary School, the early afternoon sky swallowed by an onslaught of ominous dark grey clouds. There’s been rumbling bursts of thunder and lightning every few minutes or so, which of course prompts a lot of excitement and curiosity from the kids of his class, 1A, who muffle their high-pitched squeals into their arms and into the air and jump halfway out of their seats to get a glimpse of what they clearly think is Thor, the God of Thunder himself making all this racket by sending blasts of lightning down to Earth.

“Jamie,” Harry warns, “be careful where you’re pointing your paintbrush, please. Thank you.”

He’s crouched down two tables over, on the other side of the classroom from where Jamie—one of his more talkative, slightly clumsier and boisterous six-year-old pupils—is dangerously close to completely taking Faye’s eye out, freckled and sensible and currently throwing dark looks Jamie’s way as his blue-ended brush nears her sunny clustered hair, held back in a high ponytail. If she gets one drop of paint in that hair, she’s going to lose it.

No one wants that.

Meanwhile, Harry’s helping a tearful Max stay within the lines of his stencilled words as he shakily fills in the letter B with thick blue paint, sniffling.

Harry’s heart clenches with sympathy, wanting nothing more than to send him home because he’s so distressed. But he’s not ill, so Harry can’t do that. He’s already been labelled a soft touch among the faculty, more than a few members of staff unconvinced that Max’s behaviour is entirely genuine, that he’s just playing up because he doesn’t want to be here. But they don’t have Max every day in their classes.

Max, to Harry, seems to be incredibly sensitive, shy, and cautious of his surroundings, and has struggled to integrate with the other pupils in the class, even when the others try to get him to join in with their games in the playground. He’s one of the youngest in the class and still absolutely detests when his mother leaves him at the door every morning, sobs like he’s being punished with a lifetime of no Kinder Eggs (he quietly informed Harry they’re his favourite thing in the world and he’s allowed to have one every Thursday after school). (Harry has to admit they _are_ nice. He had them all the time as a kid himself.)

He normally calms down after a few hours (yeah, Harry’s hoping that duration of time will lessen as this year progresses) and has a one-to-one helper—teaching assistant Leah—and she would be supervising him usually, as Max’s reading comprehension is progressing at a significantly slower pace than some of the other children, but Leah's running late this morning—a family emergency with her own daughter, and besides, Harry wants to ease them into this term. So, some arts and crafts for the upcoming new terms’ school fair, in aid of raising money for their anti-bullying Sprinkle Kindness Like Glitter campaign, it is.

Harry had scrambled to get up in time this morning after his alarm failed to wake him, another morning spent in an empty bed, Louis not there to rouse him with his soft snores or light, random kicks in his sleep. Though, Harry’s body clock soon did that for him, bladder screaming at him and then he jumped into the shower, rushing down a granola bar and bottle of water.

It meant he felt rushed, stressed-out and not nearly as calm and relaxed as he wanted to be to greet his class, now a year up from Reception into Year One.

They’d gotten through literacy until eleven easily enough, but after they were denied spending their break time outside due to the storm passing over, Harry thought he’d ease the kids in and do some arts and crafts until lunchtime.

So far, so good.

They’ll do some numeracy for an hour after lunch, just to be sure Harry isn’t totally being a bad teacher right now and getting away with not really doing any actual teaching because he has a mighty headache. (Especially because the bright artificial lights had to be turned on since it's gotten so bloody dark now.)

But now Imogen won't stop shoving Charlie, Jacqueline somehow managed to get her white socks drenched in the muddy water from the plastic cup on her table, Rana is currently two seconds away from painting the end of her dark plait yellow, and Harry's head is pounding with a tension headache.

At least another break time is coming up in ten minutes.

Thank god.

“Alright, quieten down everyone,” Harry says in his most soothing but firm teacher voice. “Let’s have a nice, calm afternoon, shall we?” He pauses, wincing. “Jamie. I thought I said be careful with where you’re flicking your paintbrush. On the paper. Come on. You’ll take Faye’s eye out and I’ll have to tell your mum, won't I?"

Jamie murmurs an “Oopsie,” and covers his mouth. “Sorry, Mr Styles.”

“That’s alright, just don't cause an injury." Harry points his own brush at him, making the boy snigger slightly as he gets his head back down to work. Harry smiles.

And thankfully, it’s his clean hand that Jamie’s used to touch his face with and not the one smeared with blue paint.

Harry doesn’t fancy traipsing one of his pupils down to the nurse with a tongue soaked in paint, thanks.

He looks around the classroom, at their little hands all currently smudged with an array of different colours of the stuff since it’s a Friday, the first week back at school and the new terms’ school fare needs some vibrant banners to hang up around the corridors and classrooms to show off for the parents, and since the weather outside is so distracting for the kids right now, Harry thought it was better their attention was aimed elsewhere.

If there’s one thing children love more than anything, it’s permission to get messy. (Within reason. He’s already dreading the parents’ reactions if they’ve managed to get their uniforms splattered.)

So now he has a class of twenty-two six-year-olds in aprons and armed with tubes of paint.

Luckily, they’re a well-behaved bunch or else Harry would be in deep trouble.

“Sir, Jamie’s got paint in my hair,” Ella all but wails. Her shock of red hair is indeed streaked with green. Oh, great. He was so worried about Faye, he wasn’t watching Ella, who’s walked right into Jamie head first. God knows how that happened, to be honest. Harry sighs.

“Oh, Jamie, what did I tell you?” Harry says, brows furrowed as he walks over to their table to inspect the mess in Ella’s hair, the others lost in their own world, dutifully colouring in the templates of text Harry gave them—an assortment of positivity messages he hopes will eventually settle within their young, impressionable learning minds. He cringes, realising he’s just spreading the paint with the damp cloth he’s using. God, he should start bringing wet wipes to school for this lot. “It’s fine, there’s hardly any in it at all, Ella. Okay?”

He puts on a fake smile and tries not to grimace. But Harry’s wiped as much as he can out. He’ll just have to warn her mum later. Hopefully that goes down with a laugh.

Ella nods, pouting a bit, but gets back to her letters without another complaint.

There’s a knock at the door at the same time a burst of thunder rumbles in the distance. Harry scrunches his nose up. Just a coincidence. Not at all foreboding of anything else that could go wrong today, he hopes.

Naturally every head in the room looks to the door.

It’s the deputy headteacher who walks in, Ms Coulson, her dark tight curls tied back with an oval shaped hairclip, dressed in a long-chequered skirt and olive blouse, a pleasant smile on her face. “Good afternoon, Mr Styles. Good afternoon, 1A.”

“Good afternoon, Ms Coulson.” Harry lifts his brows at the class.

The children parrot the same phrase, having suddenly gotten much quieter now that a higher member of authority has entered the classroom. Harry smirks to himself, amused, especially at how still and shy Jamie has turned, gently washing his paintbrush in the dirty jar of water beside him.

“What can I help you with, Vanessa?” Harry asks quietly, turns away from the nosy little ears, his back to the class.

“Just wanted to let you know that we’ve finally hired a replacement for class 2A. He’s starting Monday.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Harry says, eyebrows shooting up. They’d been having trouble over the summer hiring a temporary supply teacher to stand in for one of their staff on maternity leave. (Harry hopes Angela will be bringing in her new baby at some point.)

“Clara will carry on supervising 2A as she’s done this week, but I was wondering if you would make sure he’s settling in alright?”

“Take him under my wing?” Harry briefly tracks the class, shuffling some papers away from his rapidly cooling coffee.

“Yeah,” Vanessa smirks. “Exactly. He’s a bit nervous.”

Harry chuckles quietly. “Well, if they’re anything like my lot, he’s right to be.”

“He has the experience, but it’s his first full-time teaching position that will last longer than a few weeks at a time. He’s been working mostly part-time as a teaching assistant previously. He seems excellent with the children, though. Speaks to them on their level but still has the authority. Not like David,” she whispers, rolling her eyes.

Harry really dislikes David. He’s the most patronising, bad tempered teacher he’s ever come across. The kids hate him. He honestly pities 2C. They constantly tell Harry how much they wish he was their teacher when he’s supervising them on playground duty.

Harry grins. “Thank God for that. Well,” he says, sitting back in his chair as his laptop beeps a notification for a new email. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“I think you’ll get on well. You seem very similar in teaching styles, and he’s about twenty-seven, so you’ll have a friend your own age. Not like me.” There’s a flash of mischief behind Vanessa’s thick framed glasses.

Vanessa’s his boss, but she was still the first friend he made here. When Harry felt like he was drowning under a pile of paperwork and lesson plans that kept steering off the ball one way or another, she took him under her wing, made him feel like he wasn’t just another scrambling newbie, fresh from passing his teacher’s training course with flying colours and having no idea how to go about his first few weeks of school as a grown adult entirely responsible for the education, safety and ideas exposed to such fledgling, susceptible little minds. Twenty pairs of eyes all staring at Harry, waiting for his cue and hanging off his every fumbling word.

“You’re six years older than I am, what are you on about?” Harry scolds, smiling.

“I’m just saying,” Vanessa whispers, seemingly realising there is actually a whole two dozen children doing arts and crafts in front of them, conversing a bit noisily, but not too disruptive, seeing as they know well enough not to misbehave when there’s a deputy head in the room.

“Alright, well. I’ll be sure to keep an eye on him.”

“Great. Thanks, Harry.”

It’ll be nice. To have a new friend around here, show him around the place, hang out after school, maybe. Yeah. It’ll be good. He needs some new faces in his life in general. If only to stop him pining after the current ones.

Namely, his boyfriend. Who’s currently travelling around Europe right now, recording and networking and writing songs with lots of other different songwriters, waiting around for the right label to snap him up as he produces the perfect demos that might help him get there.

And Harry is so unbelievably proud of him. Loves him even more for having the courage and motivation to go after his dream, when he realised teaching wasn’t what he wanted to do full-time, that producing music and sending it out into the world was his calling, but he also hasn’t seen him in nearly a month and Harry’s insides are starting to ache a bit. It’s the longest he’s been away from Louis since they first got together nearly five years ago (well, they weren’t official until about five months later, but it counts, okay?). It’s entirely too clingy and pathetic, really. _He's_ fed up of his own brooding, never mind his friends' protests.

And it’s all he needs to not be focusing on right now, while he’s meant to be watching a class full of children, responsible for their utmost safety and quality of education. 

"Mr Styles!" Jacqueline yells in disgust. "Charlie's licking his paintbrush!"

Oh shit.

"Duty calls," Harry tells Vanessa, with a wry smile, as he scrambles out of his seat to grab the bloody brush out of his pupil's hand. "We don't eat the paint, do we, Charlie? We want to live."

Charlie shakes his head, grins sheepishly. "Yeah."

Jesus.

"I'd like to live," Harry mutters. 

*

It’s just gone half five and it’s _still_ raining, absolutely chucked it down just when Harry decided he’d make a quick detour at Tesco after he left school to stock up his empty, neglected fridge on the way home, half-distracted by Niall’s continuous texts in his pocket, asking how the first week back has gone for Harry (hectic but generally without a hitch), how much he’s missing Louis (constantly), and if he fancied coming over for drinks tomorrow night, informing Harry that he has a huge surprise for him (hmm, worrying).

He frowns as he thinks about it, turning off the engine before taking off his seatbelt.

Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he slams the driver’s door shut, squinting in the drizzling rain while wracking his brain for what possible humiliating scenarios Niall could have thought up for any number of reasons.

It’s not his birthday yet. Niall’s that is. So, who knows what on earth the man is talking about?

Harry can guarantee it’ll be memorable when it comes to Niall, anyway. As long as it doesn’t involve Harry breaking a limb or something that debilitates him from turning up for work in good condition on Monday morning for the twenty plus six-year old children that he’s in charge of giving a primary education, then fine. Harry is up for whatever’s about to be thrown at him.

And anything that takes his mind off Louis is a welcome reprieve from his interchanging moods of _wistful __longing _and _sulkiness. _Honestly, he’s a teacher, and yet he can still act like one of his six-year-old pupils according to his friends.

Harry is hard pressed to disagree.

And yes, he’s fully aware of his messy disaster emotional status, though maybe that’s just what happens when you’re in love with your best friend. You miss them twice as much precisely because they’re your _best friend_ too.

Anyway, enough of that.

Harry wrinkles his nose—it’s cold now and his brown suede jacket has almost soaked through to his burgundy jumper and the white collared, buttoned shirt he’s wearing underneath it, stomach grumbling and demanding Harry stuff his face as soon as he gets into the flat. He passes a few of the neighbours as he follows the wet pavement, green-ish and slightly auburn fallen leaves lying on the ground, gathering clusters in the corners and sides of the roads as the wind picks up.

There’s one woman with two children he sees regularly, holding her Hijab tighter under her chin as a particularly harsh gust of wind hits her face, still managing to hold her hand up to greet him, face scrunched in a laugh at the force of the wind attempting to knock them over, gripping onto the pushchair tightly which is holding her lively toddler, currently massacring a melted chocolate bar and completely oblivious to his mother’s struggle.

Harry returns the wave, chuckling too. He looks to her daughter, about five with multiple dark plaits, wearing her school uniform and raincoat. He recognises her from the year below that Harry teaches. She was sitting up particularly straight in her first school assembly on Tuesday. Model student right there, Harry thinks. Right now, she’s holding her Pepper Pig umbrella up haphazardly, giggling as she fights to keep it upright. She too waves enthusiastically at Harry, so used to seeing him around the same time every day and now at school, too.

“Lovely day, eh?” Harry calls sarcastically, grinning.

“Oh, beautiful, Mr Styles,” she calls back on a laugh—which cuts off abruptly when she sees her daughter has just jumped into a massive puddle. “Anita!—_no_—your uniform!” she groans crossly, stopping to inspect her muddily splashed tights.

Harry gives her a grimaced look of sympathy and then a departing wave over his shoulder. Anita seems utterly delighted, though. Harry keeps his amusement to himself.

At last, he gets to the door of his flat, tapping the code to get in and slowly walks up the wet, muddy-footprinted stairs on unsteady feet, praying he doesn’t make a wrong footing and slip with heavy bags full of groceries in his arms and clutched to his chest, some of which contain some hefty metal tins of beans and sweetcorn and a glass container of instant coffee. (Those could do some serious damage if he ends up falling down a flight of stairs and they bounce back off his head.)

His growing curls are damp and frizzy, and he can’t wait to hop in the shower, change into some comfy jogging bottoms and a soft jumper and wolf down some pot noodles and pastries.

And luckily, since it’s only the first week back, he’s not got a lot of paperwork to do, already having mapped out two weeks’ worth of lesson plans during the last days of the summer holiday, leaving him free to catch up on some Netflix shows this rainy, chilly Friday night.

That is until he spots a very familiar pair of chunky black Adidas trainers before he makes the last few steps to his floor, huddled right outside his door in a puffy dark coat, the brown fur of the hood standing out like a halo around his stubble-clad, flushed and _gorgeous_ face. A face he _adores_ waking up to.

Harry’s chest instantly warms with fierce affection, belly swooping in relieved, delighted surprise.

“Lou?” he grins, hoisting the paper bags full of groceries up against his chest.

Louis instantly opens his eyes from presumably resting them for a moment and smiles, wide and all crinkly by his eyes.

“Hiya, baby,” he greets softly, voice caressing Harry’s innards like silk, laced with years of endless affection and familiarity and _love_.

“Honey, what are you doing here?”

“That’s no way to greet your long-time lover,” Louis protests, indignant, lifting off the wall.

“Shut up,” Harry laughs, hearty and thrilled. “No,” he drawls, “I mean, how did you get up here without buzzing up? You lost your key. And the spare.” He rolls his eyes. Harry’s been meaning to go and get some more done. Though Louis hasn’t bothered to get another done either. He relies on Harry to let him in at the moment.

Before he left for Antwerp and Amsterdam, it resulted in many nights of rows, with Louis waking Harry up with a call in the early hours after some event or photo op, sliding out of bed to find an adorably drunk and clingy Louis beaming blearily at him with his arms spread wide, Harry steering Louis inside, his boyfriend being so bloody noisy in the process that Harry would be scared he’d wake up the whole floor with his drunken rambling and loud murmuring of sweet nothings in Harry’s ear.

“One of our lovely neighbours let me up. Took pity on me since it’s pissing it down.”

Louis’ cheeks are rosy and he’s looking at Harry strangely. Like, really _looking_. The softest, almost giddy smile on his face as he gazes lovingly at Harry. Not that this look is unusual in itself. Louis’ always looking at Harry like he’s the only thing he can see, the only person in the room, the only one that matters. He loves Harry, after all. It just feels different somehow.

“What are you up to?” Harry eyes him suspiciously.

Louis laughs. “What do you mean? Why do I have to be up to something?”

“You’re plotting.”

“I’m not!” Louis grins wider, eyes so, so soft. Practically gleaming with love. Harry suddenly feels hot, the layers he’s got on stifling, lost in the soft, unguarded sight of Louis like this, this happy and wet from the rain. His cold, pink nose.

It’s all playing havoc with Harry’s stomach, fluttering wildly, after weeks apart. He stamps out the urge to gather Louis up in his arms since they are currently occupied by groceries and quirks a brow, inspecting his boyfriend’s face closely. It really is buoyant.

“Are you drunk? You seem giddy.”

“No, ‘course not,” Louis chuckles, beaming. “Not yet, anyway.”

“You just smoked, didn’t you?” Harry can’t actually smell any weed, nothing but the cold, slightly dank smell of the rain from outside. And a hint of Louis’ strong aftershave. God, Harry could quite literally plant his face in Louis’ neck all night and be utterly content.

“No, I didn’t,” Louis insists, slightly affronted and squinty-eyed. “I’m just happy to see my baby. Missed your cute little face, didn’t I?”

“Right,” Harry snorts, ridiculously delighted despite his eye roll.

Louis tuts, a small crease between his brows. Harry beams back, feeling his cheeks warm. “Hey, I did.” He frowns, face scrunched up in disgruntlement. “Did you not miss me?”

He’s so fucking cute.

“Of course,” Harry replies softly, probably appears embarrassingly gooey, the sheer amount of love he has for this man plain as day. “I really, really did and I’m really glad you’re home. It’s a lovely surprise,” he says, kinda desperate to just pounce on him, smudge his mouth with his until they’re a wrecked mess, panting on the kitchen floor.

“Really?” Louis asks, teasing. “Don’t sound too sure.”

Yeah, right. Harry’s been _pining _for him. But he’s not about to tell him this. He’s far too needy at times. His friends won’t stop giving him shit for it.

“No, not really. It was bliss without you. I’m actually really annoyed you’re back, if I’m honest.” Harry shakes his head with a wide-set grin as Louis gasps, pressing his hand dramatically to his chest, which is a bit difficult to do since his coat is so puffy but somehow Louis manages it. Harry is constantly endeared and exasperated by this man in equal measure. “Thought I had more time to myself,” he sighs, foot pointing inwards, like he’s a besotted school kid with plaited ponytails on each side of his head, gazing dreamily at the boy—_man_—of his dreams.

“And what was so important you needed to be by yourself?” Louis squints.

“Many, many things, Lou.”

“Well,” Louis says, feigning haughtiness, “I thought you’d _miss_ me. More fool me, eh?”

Starting to stand up, wet shoes squeaking on the floor, Louis removes his hands from the deep pockets of his coat. Harry watches him, eyes unwavering from Louis’ face as he distractedly fiddles with his fringe, a smile dancing on his lips as Harry’s boot connects with Louis’ trainer.

“I did miss you!” Harry laughs. “Too much, probably.”

“Aww,” Louis coos, “I missed you too, darling.”

“Good,” Harry shakes his head, laughing. “No, but seriously. As much as I _have _missed you hogging the bathroom, what you doing back already? Thought you’d be in Belgium for another week in the studio?” He pauses, brows furrowing. “Everything’s… okay, right?”

“Yeah, fine,” Louis starts too casually, brushing light fingers softly over Harry's cheek, eyes warm, attentive. Harry swallows thickly. “I was in the studio, but I left Antwerp two weeks ago.”

Harry frowns. "How come?"

He’d thought Louis was FaceTiming him from Antwerp only a few days ago. And Harry really doesn’t want to be one of those boyfriends who gets pissy if they don’t know where their partner is at or if he forgets to call when he says he will. (Which, okay. He is exactly that sometimes.)

It’s just that Harry worries easily. He may appear unaffected on the outside, perhaps even a little aloof to some, but truthfully, he needs constant reassurances and regular updates from his boyfriend who’s away more and more now.

Just to check in now and then, so Harry knows everything is okay. (“We’re in a long-term relationship. I just wanna know he got there safe? Isn’t that a fair ask?” Harry whined to Niall, halfway through his third pint in a pub showing the golf in July. Louis seemed to have forgotten to text Harry he’d landed safely and Harry’s nerves weren’t amused. “Yeah, perfectly reasonable,” Niall replied in a deadpan, extremely bored voice. “I just want to watch the Open, H, if I’m honest.” “Fuck you, too, then,” Harry retorted grumpily.)

But usually, Harry doesn’t need to ask Louis because he knows Harry likes a text when he lands somewhere, to tell him he got to wherever safely, a ‘_goodnight’ _text if it’s not too much of a time difference. Louis usually tells him all the thorough details of his amusing escapades and heart's desires, his daily schedule without any prompting from Harry.

They did go through a miscommunication patch like a lot of couples do. Went through a tough time when they found it difficult to share their feelings about the harder, crueller things that life inevitably threw at them, preferred to compartmentalise and ignore it or distract themselves with each other without talking about any of the important things.

But they learned how to open up more. Harry thinks they’re damn good at it now. And when they want to, they _can_ talk to each other—honestly, unashamedly, and without judgement. It’s always been that way, though. From the moment they met, they just clicked. The fact that they’re both extremely stubborn does go against them sometimes, but they always make it through the hard times.

And they always love each other through those times, too. Because Louis is Harry’s best friend, and Harry is Louis’.

“There were… creative differences,” Louis shrugs, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “No biggie. All in all, it was enlightening. Ticked off some boxes.”

“What does that mean?” Harry hoists his brown paper bags further up, frowning. “Is that good or bad? Has something happened?”

Louis waves him away, shrugging again.

“It was fine.”

A flash of irritation runs through Harry. “Louis—”

“Harry, it was_ fine_,” Louis dismisses, and his tone is telling him that it’s anything but. So now Harry is definitely convinced that nothing is _fine_.

“Well, it doesn’t sound_ fine_.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Hun, don’t do that,” Harry pouts, brows deeply furrowed.

Louis exhales loudly. “Got knocked back again, some things fell through. But—yeah,” he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it bloody_ does_.”

Sighing, Louis throws his head back before moving to cup one side of Harry’s face, cold thumb pressing gently into Harry’s cheek. Harry’d hold his hand in place if his hands weren’t currently occupied with several bags of veg and an assortment of jarred pasta sauces.

He nuzzles into it instead.

Louis watches him nose along his palm. “I’m just going through a patch of disillusionment with the industry right now. But I’ll get through it. Okay? I really am alright, babe. I don’t give up that easily.”

“Do you promise?” Harry says, pondering whether he should push it further now or let it go until later and Louis’ softer, tired, more susceptible to not biting back when Harry prods for more information. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If there was stuff you needed to talk about?”

Instead of answering, which is frustrating as well as sending a shot of panic through his chest, Louis kisses him chastely and wordlessly takes one of his brown bags off him, a crooked smile meeting Harry’s concerned stare.

“Are we going in or what? I’m starving.”

“Louis,” Harry mumbles quietly, mouth tilted sadly. He knows Louis was so excited about booking a string of writing sessions with a selection of songwriters in Antwerp. It was another step further in getting Louis officially signed to a record label, he was sure of it. Right now, things are up in the air as it is. He just wants Louis to get the best deal, the best in general and everything that entails.

“Stop worrying for me so much.” Louis grins as he bops Harry’s nose, fishing for a smile.

Harry doesn’t give him one. “Sorry, but it kind of comes with the territory of being in a serious relationship with someone you love, you know.” His tone is irritable.

“Baby, come on,” Louis rasps softly, tilting his head in a clucking manner. “I don’t want a row. I haven’t seen you in nearly a month.”

Harry knows full well exactly how long it’s been, missing him like crazy, feeling like half of him is missing at times. The flat has been unsettlingly quiet these past few weeks without him. He had work to keep him busy during the weeks, but going home in the evenings to a cold and empty bed while it poured with rain outside—it made him miss Louis terribly.

“I know,” he sighs forlornly, noting the dark circles under Louis’ eyes. He thumbs the delicate skin there. Maybe if he brushes it enough, the dark colour will rub away.

“So can we just—be us for now? You can bite my head off later.”

Harry’s hand pauses. His mouth quirks.

“Come on, then, Harold,” Louis says, voice light and playful and everything that Harry has desperately been missing. “Are you gonna let me in or are you breaking up with me for being away so long?”

Harry knows it’s a joke, _of course _it’s a joke. But it still churns his stomach and ties it in thick knots. He doesn’t even know why. They’ve never broken up. They might have had a few days here and there without contact, when Louis’ away, but they use that time to think and then apologise for whatever needs apologising for. They talk about it. They work through things. Breaking up has never been an option for either of them, especially not for Harry.

It’s not even close to an option now, so he doesn’t know why he feels upset all of a sudden.

Evidently, Harry's face must be showing the discomfort he feels because Louis’ smile has waned and he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips to Harry’s worried pout, slow and lingering. His bones immediately relax as Harry melts into the kiss, sighing softly into Louis’ parted mouth, the tension in his body dissipating further when Louis’ hand squeezes at Harry’s hips atop his coat. He pecks another kiss to Harry’s lips. Another two. Three. Four.

“Help me with the key, then,” Harry smiles.

Louis dives into Harry’s coat pocket and fishes out his keys, making a show of patting him down with just one hand, the other arm tasked with holding the shopping bag. He looks up through his eyelashes with a smirk plastered across his face.

“Stop touching me up and get us inside, please."

A looming cluster of feelings coming over him at once as he steps past the threshold: nervousness, relief, impatience, excitement, _desire_. _Love._

He's been focusing on Louis' absence more than he should have, but now that he’s taking in the fact that Louis is really here, it's like he never left. Harry has got him back, after weeks of no face-to-face contact, keeping in touch via Facetime and WhatsApp messages and late-night phone calls when they’re not too tired to talk. Falling asleep still on the line, drifting off to the familiar, comforting sounds of Louis’ breathing pattern after a stressful day at work, content to be listening to him ramble on and on about stupid shit for hours.

Louis snickers, unlocking the door. “In we go, then,” he says, gesturing for Harry to go first. “Home sweet home.”

"Thanks, babe." Harry dumps his shoulder bag and the contents of the shopping on the worktop, then shucks off his suede jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair, watching fondly as Louis plonks his own stuff down by the sofa and takes off his own wet coat, the longer hair at his nape damp and curling at the ends.

“Your hair’s grown a bit,” Harry comments, standing there in his socks.

“So it has,” Louis replies. “Like it?”

“More to grab on to, so… yeah.”

Louis snickers.

Smiling, Harry takes Louis’ coat from him and grabs another chair to hang it over, pushing them both towards the radiator by the wall adjacent to the kitchen. He wanders over to the cupboards and switches on the heating.

“Cheers, baby,” Louis says, fiddling with his hair in the mirror on the living room wall. Harry watches, amused, glad to have him home.

Louis turns around to face him, swallowed up by a baggy navy hoodie and black tracksuit bottoms. “Oi. Aren’t you gonna give me a cuddle?”

Harry rolls his eyes, but of course walks straight into his arms, desperate as his chest connects hard with Louis’ and he wraps his arms around Louis’ back. He buries his face in his neck, taking in the smell of outside, of rain, sweat, stale cologne and a specific scent that’s entirely Louis.

Louis chuckles into Harry’s hair, his arms snug around Harry’s narrow waist. “So you did miss me, then?”

“’Course. Always miss you,” he mumbles into Louis’ skin, nose brushing warm skin.

A sweep of Louis’ fingers threads through his damp curls. Harry suppresses a shiver, just basking in having Louis’ presence so close again. “Always miss you too, baby.”

*

The radio is playing on a soft volume, the kitchen bathed in bright light and the sheer intense blue of Louis’ eyes.

Yeah, because Harry can’t stop sneaking looks at him, his heart clenching in his chest each time he does, an extra tight pang making itself known whenever Louis notices and connects his gaze with Harry’s with a crinkled smile.

He’s been feeling down lately. Just out of it a bit. Harry has a tendency to let himself get stuck in his own head, buried with the anxieties and insecurities he tries his hardest to stamp out daily. He thinks too much. About everything and anything. Has to force himself to do things to keep his mind busy, distracted. He’ll go to the gym regularly, for a run, drown the noise out with music. Gets out his frustrations by boxing a punching bag.

And then Louis arrives again and he just… quiets it all. Makes all the noise dissipate and covers him in all-encompassing bliss. Louis makes his chest flutter, but he also calms his nerves, relaxes his bones until he’s completely zen, just by being next to him, or in his arms, or holding his hand.

Harry’s currently stirring a pan of chicken and mushroom sauce. He sprinkles some basil and black pepper in, watching fondly as Louis attempts to cut up small pieces of broccoli, his concentrated brows pinched, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lightly pinkened lips, framed by a substantial amount of stubble.

“What?” Louis says, not looking up, voice a soft musical rasp and setting Harry’s nerve-endings alight.

“What?” Harry echoes, suppressing his widely amused smile, feeling giddy with it. He can’t help it—it’s the effect Louis has on him.

“You’re staring at me.”

“Just making sure you’re not going to chop off a finger. Happen to like those fingers.”

Louis gives him a dark look. “Thought you were going to tell me I’m pretty.”

Harry smiles crookedly, close-lipped. “You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs.

"Oh, you charmer, you," Louis chuckles, beaming in that way that makes his eyes crinkle, bumps their hips together and—swoops in for a kiss.

Harry returns it eagerly, pressing one hand to the side of Louis’ face as his lips suck and drag, titling his head for a better angle, mouths slowly melding, breathing him in before they part with a slick sound. Another peck. Two more.

Harry’s limbs are jelly. He’s lost his stomach somewhere on the floor.

With another smile, Louis releases Harry’s waist where he was gently gripping it. Harry catches his hands and pulls him back in, connecting their lips again while laughing. He deepens the kiss until it’s verging on filthy, tossing his head back when Louis finds that spot just under his jaw, following to his neck and latches on.

Hissing, Harry pushes against Louis’ chest, leaning him over so that Louis’ back is arched over the worktop. He can hear the pan’s contents bubbling frantically as he parts Louis’ lips, slipping his tongue inside and kissing him deeply.

“We have time for this later,” Louis reminds him as he pulls off, short-circuiting Harry’s brain in the process, chasing his open mouth. Louis relents with a lingering press of their wet lips. “Thought we were eating dinner first, hm?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, his blushing cheeks pinched by Louis’ fingers teasingly. “I am really hungry.”

Louis hums. “Seems it,” he says, loaded with suggestion.

Harry huffs, chuckling as he angles his body back to the pan, squeezing into it a slither more olive oil and then focuses on Louis’ socked feet sliding about instead, or he really will end up with Louis between his legs on the counter.

“Can you check the chicken breasts in the oven, please,?”

“Are they bigger than yours?” Louis retorts.

“Stop being cheeky.” Harry pauses to point, smiling as he continues to chop the vegetables.

Louis snickers as he traipses over to the oven gloves, puts them on one hand and opens the oven door with the other. A cloud of steam and heat assaults them both.

“Oh, watch the steam!”

“Yeah, a bit late for that, babe. Ow,” Louis squints. “That hurt.”

“Yeah,” Harry winces. “It’s pretty powerful when that steam gets in your eyes. Which you would know if you used it more.”

“Yeah, yeah. Drag me some more for my lack of time spent in the kitchen, why don’t you?”

“I will."

“The cheek of this one,” Louis raises his brows, smirking as he points a thumb at Harry standing behind him.

“Who are you talking to?” Harry laughs as he tries to kick Louis’ shin, missing him as Louis jumps out of the way, a delighted grin plastered on his face.

“My adoring public, that’s who.”

“Oh, you’re some bigshot now, are you? One hit without even a label and he’s got too big for his boots.”

“Well, you’re the big_foo_t in this relationship.”

Harry drops his spoon, the metal clanking loudly against the salad bowl. He dramatically lifts his eyebrows, slathering on the theatrics.

“Do you _want _dinner, dear?” he says in sickly sweet, sarcastic voice. He breaks character immediately, practically grinning into the sizzling pan of olive oil, red onions and tomatoes.

“You’d never throw me dinner away,” Louis says confidently, dishing up the chicken onto the plates Harry’s set out on the opposite counter, a bottle of wine and two glasses situated next to them. “Even if I really piss you off, you’d leave it in the fridge and just refuse to talk to me the entire evening. You’d feel too guilty. Even if I _was_ the one who started it.”

Harry raises his brows indignantly. “Do you wanna test that theory?”

Louis lunges at him, fighting for his wrists as Harry screams bloody murder, chest warm and ridiculously giddy. He can’t imagine a time of not feeling this way.

Once they’ve finished eating and Louis has finished showering compliments Harry’s way (“That was gorgeous, baby. I’m so well fed,” and Harry’s honking laughter at the phrase. "Knobhead."), they end up sated and curled around each other on the sofa, two glasses of red down and then it’s not long before they’re kissing. There’s a month of zero kissing to make up for and Harry’s sure as hell going to try and cram a month’s worth of kissing into a night.

He’s been dying to get his hands on Louis since the minute Louis left their bed all those weeks ago, craving his mouth on his golden skin one more time before he had to leave for the airport.

Louis says he’s insatiable. (Harry would have to agree when he has a partner who’s as hot and ruggedly handsome as Louis.)

(And there’s only so far your imagination can take you on the phone—as much as that’s enjoyable, too.)

For as much as Harry wants to speed things up, it starts out slow and soft, Louis’ feet in Harry’s lap and sprawled out on the opposite end, propped up by cushions because he obviously believes he’s a prince (and he’s right), Harry kneading them gently between his hands, content.

But this time it’s Louis that gets restless quickly and ends up straddling Harry, kissing him lazily and dirtily, Harry’s hands clasped tightly at his hips, Louis cupping Harry’s face as he changes the angle.

Harry squeezes the smooth softness underneath Louis’ jumper as their open mouths meet through quiet breaths.

The kissing steadily grows deeper. Urgent and intense and fighting for breath, as it usually goes after a couple of weeks without seeing each other, sending Harry spiralling into an oblivion. Kisses littered with gasps and moans and hard rolls of hips, the increased pressure of groins pressing against each other.

“Lou?” Harry gets out, eyes practically rolling into the back of his head as Louis settles his weight differently, grinding slowly into him, feeling how hard they both are making him feel crazy with need. He rests his cheek against Louis’ hot temple. “Do you want to—”

“Sex?”

Harry snorts.

“Yeah, baby.”

Louis lifts off of him and stands, tugging Harry’s hands and pulling him off the sofa with him. “Bed?”

“Bed,” Harry agrees without so much as a beat.

*

“Please." Harry's voice hoarse as his knees fall open, limbs restless and scrabbling against the new silk sheets he bought about a week ago. They’re ridiculously slippery, though, his feet sliding all over them. Maybe this was one impulse buy he should have resisted, but the silver just looked so pretty, grown-up. Sexy, even.

“Will you have some patience?” Louis mock growls as he rummages through the bedside drawers for lube and condoms.

“Lou, come on," Harry drawls lazily, feeling so horny it's almost ridiculous, "or I’ll do it myself.” He makes no such movement, his hands thrown above his head as he stares dizzily at the ceiling, his thighs shaking with anticipation.

Finally, Louis joins him on the bed, his legs on either side of Harry’s hips as he sits on his lap. Harry groans, canting his hips up, arching his spine.

“Touch me,” he begs, screwing his eyes shut and blindly reaching for Louis’ shoulders. He doesn’t find them. “_Please_. Need you now.”

He reaches between his legs, intent on fingering _himself _if Louis won’t get started.

Instantly, Louis’ wet hand grabs it, tittering at Harry’s furrowed, impatient brows.

“I’m getting there,” he says, amused, but sounding like he’s barely holding it together himself. “Be good for me, yeah? I know you can.” His voice is deliciously raspy, making Harry twitch and sending shivers down to his toes. And he can. Be good for Louis. Turned out Harry has an incredibly high submissive streak. They’ve tried tying Harry up to the bedposts as Louis rides him to climax, Harry unable to touch, Harry wrist bound above his head, face down as he just takes Louis pounding into him, rimming him until he comes, blindfolded and on his back as Louis fucks him slow and deep on the floor.

Harry’s getting harder just thinking about those times, curling his hand in the bed sheets, trying to breathe evenly, to make himself relax, mouth dry with desperate readiness and expectation. “’kay? Stay still. Don’t touch, darling.”

Tonight, though, Harry’s a bit too desperate to do as he’s told.

“But—fuck,” he gasps, pressing his palm over his eyes. “I _need _to. It's been too long.”

He needs Louis tucked back inside him, hates feeling empty. “Harry. Stay,” Louis warns him, voice a little firmer, hot breath caressing the shell of his ear.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut.

“Fuck, it’s gonna be over so quickly,” he admits in a small voice, so very aware that it’s been a month since they last had sex. He’s feeling entirely delirious and dizzy beneath Louis’ undivided attention, veins humming under his razor-sharp focus, the gentle but firm authority of his hands as they touch him, caress him until his body is stretched taut with pent-up energy and want.

God, he wants Louis so badly, wants him to pound him into the mattress so that he can barely catch his breath.

He’s fully hard and heavy against his belly, has to bite his lip to stop himself from just touching himself, desperate.

But he loves nothing more than being good for Louis.

“That’s okay, baby,” Louis says breathlessly. “We’ll just go again,” he grins. “I’m game if you are.”

Harry laughs, turning his face into the pillow. When he glances back up, Louis’ fumbling with the condom, tongue poking out and hands slick with lube, so Harry reluctantly, impatiently sits up and takes pity on him, sliding the condom on Louis himself. He gives the base of Louis’ thick cock a squeeze, biting down on a smug grin as he gazes up at Louis coquettishly.

“Fuck me hard, yeah? I don't wanna wait.” 

Louis stares, eyes glazing over.

“Actually…” he breathes, clearing his throat. He’s flushed down to his neck and upper chest, his hair already sweaty around his forehead. He’s beautiful. “I’m not lasting long either.”

Harry giggles heartily in his chest, laughter dying in his throat when Louis takes hold of his thighs, stilling as he stands on his knees between Harry’s open ones. He lets a prolonged moan slip past his agape mouth, brows creased. 

“Oh, fuck. I almost came,” he says in a strained voice.

Harry smirks, satisfied.

“Not until you’re in me you’re not." He pauses, taking in Louis' position between his legs. "You can ride me after, if you want?" Harry grins, stretching forward to squeeze at Louis' hips.

Louis snickers. "Oh, I can, can I?" he says, dropping a quick kiss to Harry’s mouth, leaning away before Harry can deepen it.

"Yeah," Harry answers quietly.

And then everything goes wantonly hazy.

The minutes passing by could be hours for all Harry knows, caught up in the familiar shape and press of Louis’ fingers as he expertly opens him up. And god, he never ever wants a pair of hands that don’t belong to Louis on his body ever.

It’s Louis. It’s always going to be Louis.

When Louis’ fingers disappear, Harry moans, starting to pant when Louis presses himself all the way inside.

Harry sloppily returns Louis’ searing kisses, holding onto his back as they burn all over his skin, the friction of his slippery thighs rubbing against Louis’ hips with every assured glide of their bodies, slick and sweaty, Harry pliant whenever Louis moves him into the positions and angles he wants, but still caters to what they both like.

No one knows Harry’s body like Louis does.

“You’re so good for me,” Louis murmurs, brushing a sloppy kiss to his mouth. “Aren’t you, baby?”

His hands grip Harry’s hips tighter, thumbs pressing into his flesh hard enough to leave bruises and Harry wants them. Wants Louis’ marks all over his body, pressed into his flesh like memories.

“My good, good boy.”

“Louis,” Harry whines, fingers raking down Louis’ back which then dig into the meat of his bum, sliding up again and tangling in Louis' hair.

“I love you so fucking much, Haz," Louis slurs between breaths which are sharp bursts against Harry's cheek.

Louis fucks into him and Harry grips Louis’ hair tighter.

“I love you,” Harry whispers, concentrates on the overwhelming feeling he's missed, of Louis moving smoothly inside him, surrounding him, engulfing him with his hands pressing and stroking and sliding over planes, knows exactly where to touch Harry, knows exactly which spots make him gasp, moan or prompt a sudden scream.

The first time they did this, they’d been out clubbing, and Harry had stubbornly attached himself to Louis’ side, warding off anyone who tried to come on to Louis, meeting their lust-driven stares with hard glares and a clutch of Louis’ hips. He knew he was being possessive, being annoying as fuck, but when he felt the steady weight of Louis’ hand constantly on his waist, he was positive he wasn’t the only one marking their territory. If Harry followed Louis around, Louis followed him too just as much.

And Louis had looked at Harry that night like he was the only person that existed amongst the crowded throng of bodies swaying and grabbing and dancing, glowing in neon blue light.

They’d left together, holding each other close, and Harry’s heart was thumping painfully in his chest, his lungs tight.

“Sometimes I think I want to kiss you,” Louis said as they waited for a cab. “I know we’re friends, but sometimes I wanna kiss you so badly that it scares me, Harry.”

Harry stayed quiet, dumbstruck.

Louis must have thought he’d taken a misstep because he was silent the whole ride home, refusing to look at him and sitting further apart from Harry than he normally would, which was usually practically Harry’s lap.

As soon as the door shut at Harry’s flat, Harry blurted out: “Lou, I _always _want to kiss you.”

And that was it.

“Oh thank fuck for that,” Louis said, and it was like the gates had opened and then they were kissing, frantic and desperate and gasping for air, hands fighting for purchase.

Harry was so overjoyed something had finally happened between them. He just wanted Louis’ hands on him. He couldn’t stop rambling through it, incoherent words of longing nonsense, mixed with soft sounds falling from his open mouth, Louis’ breathless laughter echoing among the blood rushing in his ears.

After that, they sort of fell into it, as if being with each other like this was as natural and easy as breathing.

Harry would get home from his teaching course at uni, Louis having already graduated and started a teaching assistant’s placement at a nearby school. Louis would come over every Friday and they’d have dinner, or go out, then they’d shower and stuff (sometimes together) and it would just happen. Smooth kisses turning into deeper drags of mouths, ending up in bed.

Not long after that, Louis quit his job as a full-time assistant and became a supply teacher for Year Seven’s, differentiating between teaching P.E. and Music lessons. He was writing music on the side himself, had taken up learning the guitar and began playing gigs around towns.

He was away more, and all their nights together became much scarcer. Still, Harry soaked up all the time they had together, content to be Louis’ best friend, but absolutely treasuring the moments they were so much more.

Louis’ next thrust brushes against his prostate and Harry yells out, pleasure shivering through his limbs and rendering him a pliable mess, back arched as Louis shifts his body around in different folded positions.

Their strangled sounds pepper the space around them, Harry’s hair matted to his forehead, Louis’ wet lips mouthing hungrily at Harry’s jawline.

“So good. Know exactly what gets to you, don’t I? Just me.”

“Just you,” Harry whispers, bites on his lip. Hard. “Only ever you.” He catches Louis’ lips with his own, merging their mouths together wetly.

It doesn’t take much longer before Harry gets restless, starting to push back eagerly against every glide of Louis’ body, grinding upwards to meet him halfway, working together an easy rhythm that’s become second nature to them by now. But it’s never boring. Sex is always a different experience with Louis, who’s drawing Harry’s left leg up and curling it around his waist, throwing Harry’s right one over his shoulder, keeping it there as he moves, leaning slightly on their sides.

And the new angle—it’s intense, punching a shrill shout from Harry’s throat, his hands digging hard into the flesh of Louis’ bum. Harry pushes him down harder and Louis gets the hint immediately, hips briefly losing their solid rhythm before he picks up the pace.

“Gonna—” Harry tosses his head back. He arches off the mattress with a drawn broken groan, burying his face in Louis’ damp neck and scrambles to hold onto Louis’ back. He comes, shuddering through an enormous wave of endorphins, flooding his body from his fingertips to his toes.

Louis’ hips stutter as he chases his orgasm, squeezing Harry’s thighs that are now wrapped around Louis’ waist, crossed at the ankles as Louis keeps up his hard thrusts, Harry urging him on as he mouths at Louis’ neck, overwhelmed and pressing sloppy kisses to his stubbled chin as his thighs shake with the aftershocks.

“Harry, I’m—will you—” Louis comes with a whimpered shout, collapsing on top of Harry’s messy stomach.

Harry lies there, bathing in the afterglow of the extra strong shot of serotonin that sex with Louis always gives him, arms slowly cocooning his boyfriend in, against him, around him, still joined—it’s complete bliss, but—what had Louis been about to say?

“Shall I pull out?” Louis murmurs tiredly, eyes drooping in the dim glow of Harry’s lamp. He drops a kiss under Harry’s jaw.

“Nah,” Harry shakes his head. “I’ll keep you inside me forever.”

“So until our dicks go soft?” 

“Not happening.”

“Biology is happening though, babe," Louis chuckles.

“Fine,” Harry huffs, smiling as he throws his arms above his head, wincing slightly as Louis pulls out and ties the condom, shooting it straight into the bin as he chucks it across their bedroom. “Just showing off now. You're good at everything."

Louis smooths the pinch between his brows with a long, soft kiss, smiling against Harry’s mouth. “You’re so fucking cute,” he whines, like it physically pains him.

“I know,” Harry smiles giddily, eyes still closed. "My mummy was a bunny."

Louis bursts out a shuddery laugh and Harry grins, feels him nip at his nose. When Harry starts giggling and squirming away, Louis just kisses him more and Harry returns it lazily, before he feels a tightness in his lungs.

These kind of moments and times together are getting shorter and sparser as of late and it's been something Harry's been thinking about for a while. Obviously they’ve been committed to each other basically since they decided on their second date, absolutely infatuated and forever ruined for anybody else. And Harry has his day job, he loves teaching, but when Louis’ away, he feels like he’s missing a limb, like half of him has gone on holiday without him or something.

And okay, he’s self-aware enough to know how ridiculously clingy and probably a bit unhealthy that sounds. He’s just really, really in love and loves every aspect of their relationship, and he's ready for a more official confirmation of their commitment.

He wants to get married.

And yes, they’re technically already engaged, have proposed many, many times, in fact, but they haven’t made it properly official yet.

As in, they’ve not had an engagement party to announce it to their family and friends, they've not set a date, and they still don’t have a ring for Louis either, which Harry has been very displeased about. Harry had his ring first, since Louis proposed first when they were on holiday in Amsterdam. It was spontaneous, Louis claims, and they were high, but he still happened to have the perfect ring picked. (Louis is a terrible liar.)

Harry wants to marry Louis and he wants to book a date.

He’d seriously considered having a proposal ready for when Louis got back from Belgium, but he’s not sure what reaction he’ll get, especially as Louis’ so focused on his music career right now. He’s been travelling a lot and he’s so close to signing a deal that he wants—even if Louis’ playing it down, apprehensive and sceptical as to guard himself from any further disappointment.

Will Louis want to wait a bit longer?

Harry’s palm circles Louis’ back, stroking it softly. “Can we talk?”

Pausing against Harry’s mouth, Louis pulls back a little to look at him, and to Louis’ credit, he doesn’t seem freaked out or concerned Harry’s about to break things off. (Which, _as if._)

He’s content to listen, only a slight crease sitting between his brows.

He sweeps a loose strand of Harry’s hair away from his forehead. “What’s on your mind, darling?” he asks softly, voice slightly hoarse, chin resting on Harry’s clammy bare shoulder. Harry’s belly swoops with nervousness.

He feels a tiny bit like puking, to be honest. He breathes out, picking up Louis’ closest hand and playing idly with his fingers, not holding back from the urge to kiss his fingertips one by one, slowly, gently, letting his lips cushion the pads of Louis’ fingers.

He cautiously eyes Louis, who’s looking up at him with an expression that thinks he might be able to go again.

“I love you, Lou. Love you more than I ever thought it was possible to love a person.”

Louis smiles, rolling over onto Harry’s chest and taking Harry’s face in his hands, kissing his face all over. He coos again, sweet whimpering noises around full out grins and barely open eyes. “You’re so _sweet_. God, I—there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I missed you so much, darling. Couldn’t wait to get my hands all over you—”

He presses his hand down on Harry’s cock over the sheets and—

Harry shoots upright, effectively shaking Louis off him. “What are we doing?” he says, like an idiot, a thoroughly fucked-out idiot.

Louis stares for a beat, then bursts out laughing. His chest slowly rising and falling underneath Harry’s flattened palm. “What_ are_ you talking about?”

“We’re in this for the long haul, right? You’ve not changed your mind? Do you want a fuck buddy or a husband? I need to _know_. Because you’re my _person_. For life. And if you’re not looking to marry me one day, then—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Louis stares at Harry with bulging, bewildered eyes, as though Harry’s lost the plot. And. Okay. Maybe he has. A bit. "What?"

“I just—I want more.”

Louis blinks, bemused. “When have I _ever_ implied that I don’t?” he laughs, eyes wide. “Last I checked, we’ve been in a committed, monogamous, long-term relationship for the past _four_ years. I’ve proposed to you more than once, H!”

“Yeah, when we’ve been away,” Harry points out, “in romantic cities on holiday, and only when we’ve been high or drunk or after sex—”

“Are you saying I’ve never meant it, then?” Louis frowns, mouth open.

“No, I—"

“I’m sorry,” Louis scoffs, “but I have_ not _been high every time. That is _not_ true.” There’s genuine offence laced in his voice and Harry thinks he might actually have pissed him off now. “And _fuck buddy_? Are you for real, Harry? I think I would have mentioned somewhere along the way if we were just fucking!” he says quickly, brows deeply furrowed, though he’s still half-laughing, half-very much bewildered, and maybe a bit hurt. “Honestly. What’s gotten into you? Did I fuck the sense out of you or something?”

Harry frowns, shrugging. “I guess you did," he mutters.

He feels stupid.

There's a short silence, but Harry doesn’t have to look at Louis to know he’s smirking now, burrowing back down into the sheets and lying on his side, head propped up by his elbow.

“You want to set a real date, don’t you? That's what all this dramatic shit is about.”

Harry sighs, waits a beat. “I want to be married to you, Lou. So, Yes. I do want to set a date.” He turns over, Louis moving closer. “I want to be your husband.”

“You basically are, babe.”

“But not officially. I want it on paper. Legally. Harry Styles-Tomlinson. Or Tomlinson-Styles." Harry smiles. "We can discuss it."

“Yeah?” Louis smiles, almost shy.

“Yes,” Harry insists, breaking into a smile, brushing away the hair falling into his eye. “I’ve wanted to marry you since the first time I saw you at that post-grad party Niall threw in that posh flat his brother had moved into. The one with all the plants," he laughs.

"That was a weird place. It was like he had a greenhouse in his living room," Louis grins.

"All I wanted to do was take care of you," Harry admits, "cook for you because I wanted to, call us a “we” because I was ridiculous and instantly smitten and taken in by your crinkled smiles and blue eyes and suspenders and your never-ending need to always be touching my hair.”

Louis snorts. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Harry echoes, grinning.

“You wanna set a date, then? Have a proper engagement party?" He shifts closer, talking to Harry's chin, voice silky soft. "With balloons and booze and the excuse to wander around starting sentences with “my fiancé and I”?" Louis smirks.

“Definitely.”

Louis looks at him, eyes so soft, humming. “How does the end of March sound? Say, the twenty-eighth? If we can get it, though.”

“That’s only six months from now,” Harry beams.

“And?” Louis drawls, looking at him like he wants him to get somewhere faster, eyebrows lifting.

_Oh._

A softer smile forms on Harry's face, the warmth and adoration from it pooling behind his ribs, filling his lungs. “That’s the day we first met,” he whispers, a little amazed.

“It is," Louis smiles, radiating happiness. "We're really doing this, then?”

“We're doing this,” Harry nods adamantly, throat clogging up, eyes watering. He kisses him close-mouthed, then breathlessly buries his face in his neck. “I love you so much.”

“Love you so much, darling," Louis replies immediately, “always,” he says, pressing a kiss to Harry's forehead. 

*

It’s just over two weeks later and they’re finally having their engagement party.

Harry’s beyond happy with his lot, beaming like he’s perpetually high and floating through the room in his satin fuchsia shirt, open a few buttons too many probably (but if Louis enjoys looking then Harry has no regrets), paired with light trousers and wandering around in his socks, guzzling glass after glass of bubbling Prosecco. He feels giggly and tells awful jokes to anyone who’ll listen, feeling more encouraged when everyone laughs at him. (“_With_ you, not_ at_ you, love,” Louis assures him, while laughing himself, that breathy, shuddery laugh that Harry adores and can never keep a straight face through. It just makes Harry laugh harder.)

It’s a great turnout, too, among their friends and family and some colleagues from work they particularly get on with, which Harry and Louis really appreciate and are grateful for, considering it’s such short notice. Everyone just about fitting into their tight-squeeze flat.

The night starts with a clink of glasses, seamless laughter and several suffocating hugs from his mum (and throughout) and Harry was immersed in stupid jokes and banter from their friends, already planning the wedding with his cousins and half-constantly transfixed with the glow of the lights by the mantelpiece, reflecting in Harry’s tall champagne flute.

The bubbles dissolve on his tongue as he takes another swig, a permanent grin on his face as he watches everyone from his mum to Gemma and his cousins, to Louis’ family and Louis’ friends from home take a look at the engagement ring Harry picked out for him—a thick silver band with a square jade plaque in the centre, the inside engraved with their initials side by side. It cost him a fortune to get it personalised, but he can always start saving again when the money starts coming through with his teaching position.

And Louis loves his ring. That’s the main thing.

Louis and his friends have started getting a bit rowdy now, very, very drunk and Louis looks so happy that Harry just ends up following his lead, always so persuasive in getting Harry to do the wilder things he once wouldn’t dream of doing by himself, just wanting to please him, like a silly, smitten teenager wanting to impress and go along with whatever their crush does.

Now Louis’ spontaneous outlook on life has rubbed off on Harry, allowed him to learn to loosen up. His self-esteem has grown so much with Louis, and the things they end up doing together, spurring each other on don’t seem so stupid or ridiculous or daring when they’re doing it all together, as partners.

Harry smiles around another sip of his champagne.

“You’re positively glowing. When’s the baby due?” comes a voice that has Harry already laughing.

“The spring.” Harry grins as he swats at Niall, decked out in a tightly-fitted sky blue, short-sleeved collar shirt, who ducks from his aimed thwack.

Harry strokes his tummy and sticks it out regardless, hand on his back as he takes another gulp of champagne.

Niall gasps dramatically. “Irresponsible mother. You should be ashamed of yourself,” Niall tuts, swiping a swig from Harry’s glass.

“Get your own, there’s plenty in the kitchen!” he laughs.

“Aren’t you hosting? I’ll have another, thanks.”

“It’s my engagement party!”

“Yeah,” Niall says, smirking.

Harry smiles, shaking his head.

His eyes inevitably meet Louis’ across the room, glinting with suggestion. Louis makes a stupid face, grins as he holds Harry’s gaze for a charged moment before he strides over to the kitchen worktop to where the drinks are set out, Liam and Zayn in tow.

Harry wanders over to them.

“Alright, sunshine,” Liam greets again, crinkled eyes alight. He pulls Harry to him by squeezing his cheeks and Harry laughs.

“Alright, Li, put him down,” Louis announces, “you’ve got your own,” he teases, gesturing to Zayn, who smiles around a bottle, impeccably dressed in all black and a satin shirt.

The five of them went to university together and all planned to be teachers in different subjects initially. Louis didn’t stick at it long, though, too restless and full of his own ideas, wanting to prove something to himself, despite loving teaching music to kids. Zayn is currently at a neighbouring primary school to Harry, and Liam ended up teaching too, but now he’s a chef, working his way up to a high-profile kitchen in Central London.

“Yeah, we’re not doing a swap,” Zayn drawls. “No swinging, thanks.”

“As if I’d swap you,” Liam pouts, touching Zayn’s face lovingly. Zayn tries to play it cool, but he loves it.

Harry gasps in horror. “Excuse me. What makes you think I’d ever let either of you touch Louis?”

Louis has his hands on his hips, one eyebrow raised. “Jealous shit, aren’t you?”

“Louis, don’t talk about yourself that way,” Harry shoots back.

Louis’ mouth falls open.

They all burst out laughing.

Liam and Zayn have been together almost as long as Harry and Louis have, and Niall, much to his dismay, ends up in the middle of their respective, petty drama, despite the fact that they’re all pretty sure Niall is dating his own guy at the moment, but he’s being rather cagey about the mystery guy currently. (They’ll get it out of him eventually.)

“Nice outfit, Liam. I’m very impressed,” Harry practically yells, the champagne sloshing about in his stomach, eyeing Liam’s white blouse tucked into pink and grey chequered trousers. “I might steal these trousers for myself. Right now.”

He looks at Louis, who gives him another amused look. Harry just grabs his hand and Louis kisses the back of it, smiling. “Steady on, darling.”

Harry laughs.

“I think I stole these from you actually,” Liam yells back.

“I can believe that,” Harry slurs, “but I am far too drunk right now to recall.”

“Why’s everyone talking so loudly,” Zayn almost shouts. Louis decides to scream abruptly. Harry guffaws.

“Zayn!” Harry does yell now. “How’s school?”

The music has definitely been turned up.

“I’m coming to Northlake for a bit, actually. Covering someone's maternity leave.”

“Oh! For Angela,” Harry smiles. “That’s amazing. I thought I’d have to show the ropes to a newbie, but now we can eat lunch together!”

“Yeah, sure, H,” Zayn smirks, close-lipped and barely there, but pulling Harry in for a quick though warm hug. He’s so lean and delicate but sharp and rugged around the edges, his black hair shaved off at the sides, the artfully done quiff deflating at this forehead streaked with blonde, his defined jaw spattered with dark stubble. “Congrats, yeah? I’m happy for the both of you.”

Stubble and tattoos and an intense, smoky-eyed gaze. That’s Zayn. And an ever-present hand lingering on Liam’s elbow.

“Thanks Zayn,” Louis says, tone soft, eyes soft, he’s all soft. Zayn nods him off to the side and Louis follows, pecking Harry’s hand as he lets it go.

“And Liam,” Harry says, “the top chef now, eh? Lou and I will have to come and try your food.”

“Not technically my restaurant,” Liam smiles, “but yeah, if you two don’t come and try it, I’ll be very upset,” he says more seriously, before breaking out in a beaming smile that’s so infectious, Harry instantly beams back.

“We will, we will. Promise.” Harry grins. “And thanks for coming. We’re so glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Liam assures him, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s been a long time coming.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees softly, watching as Louis tosses his head back and laughs at something his mum has said. The night has got off great and Harry couldn’t be happier if he tried.

He feels a familiar palm rest on his the small of back. “Having fun, darling?” comes his favourite voice, slightly slurred and husky and clearly very tipsy.

Harry turns and ends up in Louis’ hold. He beams at him at, winding his arms around Louis’ shoulders. “The best time, _fiancé_.“

“That not getting old yet?” Louis teases, eyes sparkling.

“Never," Harry insists, pauses. "I love you, you know,” he says again, because he can.

“I know, love. I love you, too.” Louis pecks his lips and then leaves him to join the crowd on the balcony, blowing him a kiss as he backs away. “I won’t be long!” he calls, laughing.

It isn’t until much later, when Harry’s consumed numerous glasses of champagne and stupidly been persuaded to have a few tequila shots by Zayn, that he hears it.

The sound that will give him nightmares for months to come.

A horrendous crash seems to echo through the cramped space of their flat—the source of the smashed glass and bang from the heavy outdoor table landing sideways onto the marble patio of their small, white tiled balcony, the railing decorated with fairy lights.

Several things happen at once, blurring together and blindsiding Harry as his heart thumps so violently, fighting to burst through layers of flesh and ligaments and bone.

First there’s yelling, which turns into screaming, multiple voices and people rushing out through the glass patio doors, which seems to have smashed completely after the awful crash they just heard. Then like some sick joke, it starts absolutely pissing it down, a roar of thunder and a flash of lightning making people jump. It had already been raining heavily earlier. It must have been so slippery on the tiles...

And then Harry hears his mum shout, Louis’ mum’s frantic cries over Anne, her voice shrill and urgent and saturated with wild panic. “Get Harry,” he hears her say. “Oh, my god, Harry!”

A hand closes around Harry’s forearm.

Harry can’t breathe. His feet are already moving towards her, but he can’t get any words out, mouth paralysed.

Niall comes into view, gesturing with his hand, an ashen look on his face.

And then Harry sees them. Sees Zayn and Liam leaning over someone. No, not _someone._

_Louis._

They’re all leaning over Louis.

His Louis, who’s slumped in a heap on the wet white patio slates as the rain continues to pour down like a shower head has been left on in the sky, several puddles of other dark drinks on the floor, and probably more champagne with all the smashed flute glass shards scattered everywhere.

And blood.

There’s so much blood. The front of Louis' hair matted with it, what's on the tiles just mixing with the rain and Harry can’t fucking breathe, his entire body is trembling uncontrollably. His gut feels like he's been repeatedly punched, punched in the sternum, his chest.

Bile rises in Harry’s throat and he dry heaves, hunching over himself as he collapses onto the tiles next to Louis, in utter shock as his hands begin shaking aggressively. Unaware of everything around him, Harry attempts to pick Louis’ slack, unconscious body off the floor and out of the rain, cursing himself, because he can’t fucking stop shaking and he’s trying to be _careful_. Careful and gentle with his Louis and he just _can’t._

He knows he starts to become hysterical, just starts screaming, and he doesn’t really remember how he gets up or when they get in the ambulance, just drowns in the blinding, overwhelming terror that's making it difficult to drag air into his lungs as they make the journey to the hospital, Harry slumped frozen beside the stretcher, gripping onto Louis' hand for dear life.

*

The beeping of the machines is too loud in Harry’s ears. He jolts awake, squinting wearily, exhausted from having barely had an hour’s sleep, and scoots his chair forward with his feet until he’s right next to the bed. He unfolds his arms and pillows his head carefully on Louis’ front, where his lap is covered by the white sheets, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest. He's been obsessively watching it, needing the reassurance with his own eyes.

He hates the NG tube in Louis’ nose, and the tubes connected to his arms and hooked up to his wrists. The plasters and bandages wrapped around the right side of his head; a chunk of his hair shaved off at the front when they had to operate. He looks entirely vulnerable and too small in this clinical hospital bed and it’s not right, not when Louis’ presence is so huge, so big, so loud and proud.

For who knows what time now, Harry’s eyes well and sting with tears, spilling past the beds of his eyes as he closes them, burrowing his head deeper in Louis’ lap, longing for the custom gentle rub of his fingers against his scalp, his go to motion whenever Harry’s like this, whenever he has him close.

He wishes Louis would wake up and do that now. He misses him so much. He’s been right here with him since he arrived at the hospital three days ago, but never have they not had any kind of communication whatsoever for this long. Harry can’t even text him.

Instead, Harry takes Louis’ hand, tracing the thick silver engagement ring Harry gave him, still sitting comfortably on Louis’ ring finger, the small square jade plaque catching the bright artificial lights of the hospital room.

“I know you like lie-in’s,” Harry murmurs quietly, “but this is taking the piss a bit, Lou.”

Several more minutes pass, Harry drifting off again with Louis’ hand in his and Harry’s head in Louis’ lap when there’s movement under Harry’s cheek.

The sheets start to rustle and Louis’ knee bends slightly.

Harry shoots upright out of his seat. 

Louis makes a gargled noise of discomfort, hand coming up to his nose where the NG tube is taped to his face.

“Louis?” Harry’s voice sounds rough with disuse, thick with emotion as he tries not to crowd him, relief pooling in his chest, fear still creeping around the edges of his vision, convinced they’re not out of the water yet.

It takes several moments for Louis to properly blink awake, his wrists twitching at his sides, hooked up to the IV and whatever else.

Wincing, Louis’ face screws up, eyes still closed. He’s in pain. Harry starts crying.

“Where the fuck am I?” Louis barely whispers hoarsely, bringing on a coughing fit as he tries to twist in his position. “My—ow—fuck, my_ head_.”

Harry chuckles through aborted tears with relief, that he’s awake, that he’s already swearing, rushing to the other side of the bed to retrieve the jug of water and fills a glass with a straw. He holds it up to Louis’ mouth, who takes a sip unquestioningly.

“Thanks,” Louis whispers, manners still at the forefront of his mind after waking up from a head injury, apparently.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks him slowly, setting the glass down.

Louis doesn’t say anything, still hasn’t looked at Harry yet, instead lets his hooded, groggy gaze flicker around the room, taking his surroundings and the machines around in. He seems a bit stunned, his responses delayed. Tired.

“Louis? You had a fall. An accident, love. You hit your head. Can you hear me, baby?”

Harry tries to stay in his eye line, waving in his face softly. It catches Louis’ attention, almost startling him.

And Louis… stares, his blue eyes clouded in confusion as his gaze ponders Harry’s presence.

He’s probably incredibly disorientated right now. He looks so young like this, minus all the stubble around his jaw on his face.

He frowns, deeply, attempts to say something, but abandons what he was going to say, making a tiny noise of protest as he presses a light finger to his bandages.

“Hey, you’re fine. You’re okay,” Harry tells him, voice uneven with a wave of emotion. “God, you have no idea how much you scared me, baby. I was so fucking frightened.” He swallows down a sob. “Don’t you ever fuck about drunk on that balcony again, do you hear?”

Louis opens his eyes again, his gaze falling back to Harry dazedly. “What?”

He instantly softens.

“Honey, hey, it's me," Harry soothes, softly brushing the hair from Louis' forehead, his watery smile waning the longer Louis stares at him with eyes that hold none of the familiar, overwhelming affection he's used to. Even the during the worst arguments they've had, Louis has never looked at Harry as blankly as this. Though, Louis has never woken up from a medically induced coma before.

"I'm sorry,” Louis finally says slowly, wincing as he tries to shift in the bed. “Do you think I'm someone else?"

Harry's stomach plummets, his pulse quickening. Something's wrong.

"I think you're Louis Tomlinson. My fiancé," he smiles confusedly. Harry reaches for Louis’ hand but Louis snatches it back, brows furrowed.

"I don't have a fiancé," he insists, disbelief written all over his bruised face. "I think you have the wrong room, mate."

Dr Wells finally comes in, Harry had forgotten to call someone in, too wrapped up in the fact he can speak to Louis now. He needs to call his mum, his own mum, their friends.

“Louis. You’re awake.” She shoots a questioning look at Harry, her pleased expression faltering. “Do you know where you are? How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

Harry doesn’t even have the energy to snort. Something is so incredibly wrong.

“That’s to be expected,” Dr Wells smiles. “We can give you something for that.”

“I’m in the hospital, then?” Louis looks around at everything distrustfully, cowering back into his propped-up pillows like a spooked animal. He spares Harry a quick glance. “What happened to me?”

“Hasn’t Harry filled you in?”

“Harry?” Louis says hesitantly. “Harry Styles? What—what are you doing here?” He sounds confused, apprehensive even.

Panic immediately settles in Harry’s chest.

“I’ve been waiting for you to stop being a drama queen and wake up. What do you think I’m doing here?” Harry huffs on a choked laugh, brows furrowing.

Louis matches him, frowning deeply, eyeing Harry with strange, unfamiliar eyes.

“I don’t know, I guess—I guess I’m just surprised. We haven’t really talked properly before.”

“You hit your head, Louis,” Dr Wells interjects, glancing at Harry, gaze loaded. "Try and relax, you'll feel particularly groggy and confused at first. Harry, let's take this slowly."

Harry closes his eyes and exhales.

“Louis, honestly. If this is a joke, I’m not finding this funny in the slightest, okay? I have been worried sick for the past three days. I thought I’d lost you. So, stop with the sick jokes, alright? It’s too soon. Wait a week, at least, when I’ve got you home before you start with the ‘who are you?’ wind-ups.”

“I…don’t know what you’re talking about,” Louis protests, shaking his head and starting to get a bit visibly upset. “Honestly, Harry. I don’t understand what’s happening.” He pauses, taking a deep breath as his eyes flit around outside in the corridor. “Where's—is my mum here?” he asks, voice small.

Harry stares at him, feeling like he’s going to be sick. “She’s gone home for a few hours to get freshened up. I stayed,” he says, voice wavering, gruff. “She’ll be back soon. I’ll call her in a minute.”

Louis nods, doesn’t look at him, eyes hooked on the open blinds.

“You had a fall at home three days ago,” Dr Wells continues and Louis looks at_ her_. “You slipped on the balcony patio of your flat that you share with Harry.” Louis’ eyes again flick back to Harry, this time accusingly. “You suffered a nasty hard blow to the front of your head. So, to avoid any swelling or a bleed on the brain, we decided to put you in an induced coma. Are you following so far, Louis?” she asks gently.

“Uh…” Louis’ face falls, uneasy. “Yeah. I think so.” His mouth wobbles. It shatters Harry’s heart.

“What’s the last thing you remember, Louis?” Dr Wells asks, patiently.

Louis stays quiet a moment. “Um. Walking home to my dorm room after a party?" He pauses, clears his throat, still rough from disuse. Unthinkingly, Harry passes him the glass of water. Louis takes it slowly, sipping on the straw. He grips onto the glass tightly. "I think, um— It was my mate’s… uh. Yeah, my mate Niall’s—it was his birthday. Yeah, it was his birthday party.” He nods to himself, like he’s congratulating himself on what he thinks is correct information.

He looks at Harry, expectant.

Harry frowns, then his eyes widen in confusion. “What?” he says, voice hollow, a harsh pain digging into his sternum, feeling like he's been punched. "That's the last thing you remember?"

No.

_No. _

This can’t be happening.

Louis nods.

“This is temporary, right?” Harry asks Dr Wells. “This is just due to waking up from a coma or whatever? He’s just disorientated. He’ll become clearer as he wakes up properly?”

“Louis, are you sure?” Dr Wells asks, ignoring Harry for the time being. Harry counts to ten.

“Yeah,” Louis drawls slowly, frowning. "Why?"

“That’s what you remember?” she asks calmly, face giving nothing away.

“You don’t—you don’t know who I am?” Harry tries to keep his voice from wavering, but he can’t. He_ can’t._

“Harry Styles?" Louis frowns.

Harry smiles, breathless. “Yeah, I’m your…”

“You're Niall's best friend,” Louis cuts in confidently. “You're taking a sociology course, right? I saw you at the party. Although, I’m wondering why you’re here now and he isn’t,” he shudders, trying to laugh.

Harry stares. His cheeks are wet. His body too tight for him, like when his blood pressure is being taken and his arm feels like it’s about to burst. It’s strangling him. Panic. He feels panicked.

“No—Louis, it’s me._ Your_ Harry,” he gestures to himself, placing his hand on his chest. “I’m your fiancé,” he says more insistently. “Lou. You’re scaring me. Don’t do this to me, please. You dickhead,” he says, verging on the edge of whimpering and then bursting into tears, while still attempting to smile through his panic. “Please stop this now.”

“Stop what?" Louis implores, startled.

“_Please_. Stop messing around."

Harry’s heart beats hard through his shirt, slamming against his ribs and Louis’ face softens a little, but it’s still not right. It’s _wrong. _It’s just wrong.

“I promise you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His face contorts in concentration, curiousness, _concern._

“Your _ring_,” Harry says, desperate, taking hold of Louis' hand. “See? _I _gave this to you. You’re wearing it on your ring finger. We’re getting _married,_” he says helplessly.

Louis follows Harry’s gaze and frowns. “We can't be? I didn’t—” His hand is limp in Harry’s.

Stunned, Harry rips it away, like he’s been burned.

“Okay, Harry, why don’t we step outside for a minute?” Dr Wells gives him a pointed look. "Louis, I'll make sure your family is contacted."

“I love you,” Harry says, eyes pleading, desperation colouring his voice. 

Louis stares, shocked. Then _laughs._ “I don’t… I barely know you. Listen, if we did something last night then—shit, I’m _sorry_.” He sounds sad. Pitying. Like he feels bad for Harry, feels guilty about him, like they were a one-night stand…

Like they’re nothing. Like they don’t exist.

Harry turns around and rushes out of the room, into the corridor, where the lights are still too bright and his chest is so tight that it hurts.

“Okay,” Dr Wells starts calmly, her long brown hair reaching the collar of her white coat as she shuts the door and they're standing between walls that are pallid, empty, “Louis seems to have some memory issues. But this might be temporary. This is quite common with head injuries. We can’t jump to conclusions—"

“He woke up and didn’t even recognise me! Not as _me_!”

“Harry, try and stay calm—"

“He doesn’t know I’m _me_. He thinks he’s still at uni! He thinks he’s still twenty-three years old. He’s missing _five years_ of his life. How am I supposed to stay calm,” he grits, tears springing to his eyes.

“It could still be temporary—” Dr Wells launches into a speech that Harry doesn’t hear, her voice, everything sounding very far away and hazy.

Harry slowly, heavily leans back against the nearest wall, shirt catching on paper pinned to a leaflet board. He feels like the place is closing in on him, trapping him until he can’t breathe. He thinks he feels a hand on his shoulder, a torch making him blink his eyes closed. He sobs, slides down until he’s sitting with his knees up on the cold floor, one that smells like anti-bacterial gel and bleach, hoping with everything that he’s just going to wake up from an unthinkable nightmare.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who's waiting for this to be completed, I'm really sorry it's taking so long! A lack of time and motivation really puts a stop to progress. Hopefully I'll get the third part up much sooner. xx

Harry squints, vaguely registering a blinding light being rudely shone directly into his eyes. He groans brokenly at the discomfort, head lolling like a rag doll.

“Harry, can you hear me?” a voice asks.

A serious voice that Harry recognises instantly as belonging to Dr Wells rings in his ears.

After three long, terrifying days, Harry knows it’s her—and the implications that come with her voice speaking like this, and they send Harry spiralling down a dark hole again, an unwelcome wave of images that dig and bury themselves into his mind, intrusively pasting themselves behind his eyelids:

A brightly lit corridor—its smell both stale and clinical; a stretcher holding Louis rushing through heavy doors; an assault of scientific swords in which Harry has no idea of the meaning behind, being pelted at him as his eyes struggle to see, to make sense of the brightness and blurriness that clouds his vision, desperately needing to zero in on Louis lying on a bed in an operating theatre; the doors that abruptly shut him out.

There’s a weight on his shoulder. Then, cold, unfamiliar fingers guide his jaw from the side to the front.

"Harry, turn your head to face me, please. Look ahead.”

A torch is shone in his eyes, practically blinding him again. Harry makes a noise of protest, scrunches his features up as he tries to twist away from the too bright light and the prodding, ending up slumped over onto his hip.

He grunts, bites back a whimper as he remembers where he is. Remembers how utterly exhausted and mentally drained he is. His stomach breaks him out of his sobering thoughts and gives a pitiful grumble, reminding him that hasn’t eaten something, not even knocked back a weak cup of tea, for probably the last nine hours now.

But his chest does feel significantly less like it could implode in on itself at any second, and so he takes a slow breath in, lets the stale, but nonetheless, oxygen finally infiltrate his lungs, and breathes out slowly, chest expanding, blinking his eyes open as everything comes back into focus.

He finds himself huddled in a squatting position, one arm plastered to the wall.

He’s on the floor, and it's a bit damp, probably just having been washed. He sighs again.

When he glances up, Dr Wells’ concerned face is staring back at him, the slight crows’ feet in the corners of her eyes reminding him of his mum.

He should call her back.

She’s been texting him every free moment she has at the salon and she’d drop everything to be here in a flash if Harry asked her to. But he won't ask her to, doesn’t want to bother her at work, or worry her any more than he has to, and then there’s his job, his own place of work. The school. Everyone on the faculty have been so supportive and understanding about what's happened. Vanessa has been has gone above and beyond with her texts and calls and Zayn is covering his class for him. 

He should be with the kids. They must be wondering where Harry is, having only been told that Harry's 'loved one is poorly'.

God. Everything was great. How could everything have gone wrong so quickly? A freak accident causing all _this._

"Louis?" he says automatically, instantly remembering what’s happened, and then winces. A sharp tug under his ribs as he thinks of the blank stare Louis gave him when he woke. 

"Louis’ being looked at and checked over by a nurse. I'll look Louis over myself and talk about upping his dosage of painkillers in a moment."

"Is he in pain?" Harry gets out, stomach clenching with the urge to stop it immediately.

"A bad headache, I suspect. But that's to be expected after the head trauma he's experienced, and the added coma. He's bound to feel groggy. We'll know more when we run some tests and take his bloods. Make sure everything is working normally."

Nodding, Harry blinks away the stars in his eyes, vision still a bit blurry.

"Do you suffer often from panic attacks, Harry?"

"Um," he says dumbly, rubbing his forehead as he concentrates on continuing to breathe evenly. "No, not really."

Dr Wells nods. "These are very stressful circumstances." 

Harry's jaw clenches.

“Any dizziness, nausea?” 

Yeah. He’s sick to his stomach and has been for the past three days.

Harry sits himself up, bones heavy, and puts his back to the wall, his legs lying straight out in front of him. His hands are limp by his sides, itching to be laced with someone else’s. Someone lying in a bed to his left.

His hands are shaking.

Louis’ genuine_ ‘I’m sorry,’ _as Harry dashed out the room echoes in his ears.

He stares at the closed blinds to Louis' room. Probably for the best. Louis must already think he’s pathetic, some kind of delusional stalker who claims he’s in love with him and has basically lost his mind.

_Lost his mind_. 

Harry grimaces, pushes away the panic that grips him again, rapidly rising back to the surface. “I’m just tired. And I’m a bit… hungry, I guess. Haven’t eaten in a while. But I can't right now... I do feel like…” His voice is feeble, mumbled. He can barely find the energy to string a sentence together. “Yeah. Um. Kinda do feel a bit dizzy, though.”

Dr Wells nods, stands up from her crouching position beside Harry. “Well, in my professional medical opinion,” she says, sliding the little torch into her white coat pocket, “I’d subscribe you a nice warm meal, plenty of fluids and some much-needed bed rest.”

Harry sighs, letting his head knock against the wall. There's so much to do, isn't there? People to update. Work.

Zayn’s meant to be taking on his own class. He can't cover for Harry for who knows how long.

And Max. He's going to be unsettled enough as it is over Harry not being at school. He thinks about the timid, cautious boy struggling not to cry when he's frustrated and overwhelmed, wonders if Zayn would know how to calm him down.

It grates at him as he briefly closes his eyes.

When he opens them, Louis’ mum arrives through the double doors.

“Harry, darling? What are you doing down there?” she asks immediately, eyes widening. “Is Louis—”

“He’s fine,” Dr Wells cuts in. “He’s awake. His vital signs seem to be normal, but of course, we need to run more tests to be certain—”

Grimacing, Harry scoffs humourlessly, halfway onto his feet. “He doesn’t know who I am, but yeah, everything’s working normally,” he mutters quietly.

Harry _hates_ the bitter tone of his voice. His heart is breaking, but there's no excuse for rudeness. Wincing, he tries to stand.

“What?” Jo says, automatically rushing to help Harry up. “What do you mean he doesn’t know who you are?”

Exhaling shakily, he looks toward Dr Wells for help. She instantly obliges. “Louis appears to have some memory issues upon waking from his coma. He’s a bit confused. But it’s still early stages. It could all come back to him tomorrow.”

“What kind of memory issues?” Jo asks warily, holding Harry’s hand as she meets his gaze. "How bad is it?"

“He doesn’t—um,” Harry starts, biting the inside of his cheek. “Louis doesn’t... remember that me and him are together. He seems to think he’s still in his last year of uni. When I hadn't met him yet.”

“What?” Jo laughs, but the humour dissipates in an instant when Harry doesn’t join in. “How could he not? He didn’t recognise you?”

“He recognised me after a minute, but not as me. He thinks I’m just—” Harry’s eyes land on the blinds. 

Jo blinks at him, wide eyes staring expectantly. “Just what?”

“Louis asked for you. I think he remembers everything else. He just doesn't remember that he loves me—and I—I know it might just be temporary and that I shouldn't panic yet, but—” Harry’s voice breaks. He covers his face with his hands, heart pounding in his throat.

“Oh, Harry."

Jo smothers him in a bone-crushing hug. He stiffens in her hold for a moment, before quickly relenting and wrapping his arms around her waist. Jo’s been like a second mum to him since he’s known Louis—who introduced Harry to her probably much earlier than most people would agree with, but Louis had told Harry he was sure about him, sure enough that he wanted his best friends to meet each other.

The memory stabs at Harry dizzily.

He buries his face in her cream fleece covered shoulder. She smells like lemon washing detergent and a designer perfume that Louis bought for her last Christmas. He lets the tension release, lets everything that's built up to this moment seep out of his lungs, his eyes, all the fear and worry and confusion and _pain. _

And cries.

“That's it. Let it all out, darling,” Jo whispers soothingly, rubbing his back in soft, unrelenting circles. He tries to focus on the soothing sensation but he can't stop himself crying harder, sobbing his lungs out, the fabric of Jo’s fleece jumper getting soaked with Harry’s anguished tears and becoming lost within the desperate grip of his fingers.

“He's forgot me. He doesn’t love me,” he breathes, coughing as he tries to catch his breath.

“Oh, darling, of course he loves you,” Jo says, and it sounds like she’s crying now too. “And he hasn't forgotten you. We’ll get through this together, alright?” she soothes, rubbing circles into his back. Harry tries to focus on it. “It might take time… lots of time, but this doesn’t have to mean the worst. Not yet. We just have to wait and see. Yeah? It’s gonna be alright.”

Her own voice cracks.

It stabs at Harry’s chest.

“What if it’s not?” Harry says, his voice muffled. “What if he never remembers me?" His chest is heaving. He can't get the right amount of air in. He holds her tighter.

"Don't think like that right now."

What if Louis really has lost his memory and it’s permanent? How is Harry ever going to get through that? He can’t just let go of him? Will Louis want him to go?

He coughs again, spluttering in poor Jo’s shoulder, probably. "How will I ever get over that?” he croaks.

Jo pulls back, hands cupping Harry’s blotchy, wet cheeks. She looks at him with some of the same warm gentleness Louis’ always had, a determined glint set in her glassy eyes.

"Harry, listen to me. If Louis doesn’t remember you, then you'll just have to remind him, won't you?”

She smiles, watery and reassuring. Voice tender. Light.

“That simple?” He breathes out slowly, wetly, shuddering as his head lulls sideways.

“You’ll just have to show him. Let him realise just how incredibly_ loved_ he is, _who_ he is, the life you have together, and wait and see. But I know one thing. Louis wouldn’t ever want you to go, Harry. You know that, don't you? There is no world in which my son doesn’t or wouldn’t love you.”

An even harsher sob scrapes its way from deep inside Harry’s chest. He tugs at the hem of Jo's fleece, and bows his head, fingers still gripping onto the soft material like it's his life line. As though he's standing on a cliff's edge, struggling not to fall and this is all he has to hold onto, to save himself.

“Okay," he sniffs.

She gives him another watery smile, holding in tears herself now. She exhales shakily, smoothing her soft hands over Harry’s shoulders. “Go home now, eh?”

Home. The thought of going back to the flat alone causes a fresh onslaught of tears to trickle down his cheeks.

Harry doesn’t correct her and tell her that _home_ is only a place wherever Louis is, but they share a heavy, knowing look anyway.

“Get some sleep. It’s late now. Come back tomorrow and I’ll stay with Louis for now. I’ve brought another overnight bag, but it’s only what he’s left at mine. Would you mind grabbing some things for him? I’d do it myself but—”

Her tone isn’t anything to be offended about. There’s isn’t anything to be hurt by. Logically, Harry knows this and on any other day, this wouldn’t bother him. She hasn't even said anything wrong, but something territorial in Harry rears its ugly head instantly.

Something that says, _well, yeah? Of course he's going to do that? Of course he's thought of that already._

_He’s still my person, isn’t he? Forgetting who I am at the moment doesn’t just erase our history, does it? _Harry bites back the words sitting sourly on his tongue_. _Bites his cheeks instead.

Hard, until he tastes copper.

“Of course I don't mind. Why would I mind?” he frowns, nods a bit briskly. “Why wouldn’t I bring more of my own fiancé’s things for him? Why wouldn’t I be taking care of him?”

“Oh, no. No, I know that, darling, no, I wasn’t implying at all—"

He knows Jo doesn’t mean it like that, but Harry’s feeling impossibly on edge right now, the slightest thing is grating on his remaining tattered nerves. It’s like suddenly Harry isn’t engaged to Louis anymore, like he’s nobody.

_Of course _he’s going bring Louis clothes from_ their_ flat.

Harry crumples. “No. God, no. I know. I know. I’m sorry_, I know_. I’m sorry, Jo. I’m just feeling—” he exhales wetly, rubbing his eyes. “Oh, shit, Jo. I’m sorry. I’m being such a dickhead.”

Jo just smiles, sadness and regret pooling in her eyes. “You’re not. God knows I understand how tough this for you. I can’t imagine what Louis would be like if it was you. You’ve been through something incredibly distressing. We all have.” She sighs, eyes sad and tired. “Oh, darling, it’s been a long, miserable few days, hasn’t it? We all deal with that in different ways.”

“Yeah, well. I’m still sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. You don’t deserve that. He’s your child. You’re scared, too.” He hugs her to apologise again, cushioning his cheek in her hair, soaking up her comforting embrace.

She kisses him on his cheek, gives him one more tight hug. “It’ll be alright,” she says again. “He’s fine, and that’s the main thing. He’s here.”

She’s right. Things could be unimaginably worse right now.

“Yeah.” Harry returns her smile weakly, gaze finding the blinds still closed. He swallows hard. “Okay, so I’ll be back later,” he tells Jo. “Or, um. Tomorrow.”

“Get a full night’s sleep, darling, please. It will be good for both of you.”

It takes more effort to make his feet leave the hospital premises than he’d like.

*

Walking back into the flat is no picnic. It’s completely silent and it fills Harry with dread and anxiety. It feels terrible, makes Harry’s skin itch like he’s forgetting something. Unsettling in a way Harry has never felt while being in the flat alone before.

And that’s something that happens often. They’ve learned to cope with that.

But it’s a different feeling than he's felt any other time that he’s walked in to Louis not home.

He sighs, briefly screwing his eyes shut, rubs at his temples.

With all this worry and dread hanging over his head, how is he meant to get an ounce of sleep tonight?

What a joke.

He walks further inside, eyeing the glass patio doors that were already taken care of by Harry’s mum.

She called someone she knew in to fix it as a favour on short notice and at a cheaper rate. Harry’s immensely grateful he didn’t have to deal with that.

And then there’s the fact he’s so lucky that Louis’ alive and otherwise unharmed. That’s something Harry is going to thank his stars for and cherish even harder every fucking day for the rest of his life.

He still has his best friend.

He just needs to get through the night. Clear his head. Rest his aching, exhausted body for a bit. So that’s he’s strong and ready to help Louis in any way he possibly can.

The last thing Louis needs is the added stress of Harry breaking down in front of him every time he sees him.

He just has to pull himself together and get on with it. 

For Louis’ sake.

He can do this.

*

Although the kitchen has been cleaned up, again courtesy of his wonderful mother (god, he owes her everything), the bed is left unmade, ruffled from where he and Louis last left it. His mum mustn’t have wanted to disturb it. Knew Harry wouldn’t want her to touch it.

Thank god, to be honest.

The sheets are nearly halfway off the bed after a quick, clumsy roll around they had before they got showered and changed in time for their early guests. Namely their mothers.

That was the last time.

It was mostly teeth clashing, honking laughter and awkward, uncomfortable positions in their haste to get each other off as quickly as possible since they were on a deadline, and it was… perfect.

It was them.

Breathless laughter and too much kissing, a bit too energetic. Hands everywhere they could reach. Always hands. Linked, pressed, stroking.

Harry’s chest thumps hard, fast. Tightens terribly. Painful and piercing as tears spring in his eyes.

Again.

Fuck’s sake.

He grunts, drawn-out and frustrated. Presses the backs of his palms to his eye sockets, a little harder than necessary.

Breathing out slowly, he stares blankly at their bed for a full five minutes, before he starts a repetitive mantra in his head to keep him from panicking again, nails digging into his palms, telling himself this Louis’ current amnesia is just temporary and Louis will be fine in the morning.

And Louis will kiss him and softly tell Harry how silly he was for thinking he’d ever forget him, reiterate what a worry bug Harry is and this will all become just an awful, unpleasant memory that will inevitably be darkly made fun of in bad taste at one of the speeches at their wedding. (Harry’s money is on Niall’s.)

And if not—

Well. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Because Harry isn’t in the frame of mind to even contemplate the implications of that possibility.

Vanessa has said to come back to work when Harry’s ready, that Zayn will cover for him as long as needed. That the kids are settled. But Harry thinks he’ll probably go back next week. At least that will keep his mind occupied, whatever happens. The kids will be wondering where he is, anyway, and he doesn’t like to disrupt their routine. He’s unsettled the kids more than enough already, especially as Harry hasn’t even had a day off from his class once since starting the job.

He sighs and pads to the bathroom, a persistent ache in his stomach.

Methodically, he washes himself in the shower, numb and blank, then forces himself to eat some porridge and a banana, gulping down a bottle of water. He takes a cup of tea to bed with him that he drinks while he scrolls his social media feeds and answers the building texts of support and reassurances from friends and family.

Each reply eases his mind a little, and he tries his hardest to convince himself that he’s worrying over nothing.

Tomorrow is going to be a different story. (If only he could get his mind to shut up for once; he’s torturing himself with scenarios that will do nothing to help him sleep.)

Like she can hear his silent pleas, his phone buzzes in his hand.

His mum is calling.

“Hi,” Harry manages to say, sliding his body under the duvet further as he cradles the phone to his cheek, the phantom feeling of Louis’ arm wrapping around his middle there when he closes his eyes.

“Hi darling, I didn’t think you’d be asleep yet,” Mum starts, “but if you were, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Harry sniffs. “I was about to try to sleep, though.”

There’s a heavy pause.

“How are you really, sweetheart?” He lets the softness, the concern and worry in his mother’s voice wash over him, hugs the feeling to him as if she were here right now, cuddling him to her chest in bed when he was a little boy. “How was Louis when you left? Jo texted me that he was awake. He seems fine? Thank god.”

“Yeah, he's...” Harry exhales. He stays quiet a moment, trying to work out how to explain—

“Harry?”

“He’s… Louis’ having some—memory issues,” he scrapes out, voice breaking mid-way, and at that, he automatically burrows himself further into his bed, pushing his face sideways into Louis’ pillow as the duvet drops over his shoulders. He inhales the pillowcase deeply.

“Memory issues? What does that mean? Was he just groggy from the coma?” Mum’s voice is instantly wrought with panic. She sounds like him.

“I hope it’s just that. That’s what I’m hoping, because—well,” he sighs shakily. “Yeah.”

There’s more silence on the line. “Alright. It’ll be okay, baby.”

“It’s just—” he sniffs, voice probably muffled under the covers. “I’ve always wanted to take care of him. I like doing it. I like making sure he has everything he needs, because I just—I worry. All the time. And this one time, I wasn’t there. And look what’s happened? I have been scared of losing him from day one, Mum, and I can’t—I—”

His mum shushes him, the sound soothing to Harry’s ear. “Oh, baby. You haven’t lost him. Not yet. And you won’t. But you do know this isn’t your fault, don’t you?”

Harry scoffs wetly. Great. He’s crying again.

“How could it be? This is no one’s fault, Harry. Louis’ a grown man. He can take care of himself—you know that. This was just… a fluke. An awful accident.”

“But it was raining. They were so drunk. I don’t why I didn’t—I should have checked on—”

“Harry, no, they’re all grown-ups. You’re not their parent,” she tells him, but her tone suggests he’s being unreasonable and yeah. He supposes he is. "That's not your job to check on them. They're not your students."

He exhales shakily, whipping a tissue out of the box on the bed and blows his nose.

He feels pitiful.

When the hell did this become his life?

“If you hadn’t been inside mingling, you would have been there too, and it might be you in a hospital right now with him. Or any of them on that balcony.”

“God, I know Louis is more than capable of looking after himself, Mum. I know that. He’s the strongest person I know, but he thinks he never needs anyone. He pretends he doesn't. That he can do it all on his own. But everyone needs someone, even when they won’t admit it. And it’s terrified me sometimes. Being with him. Feeling like I’m the one who’s always needed_ him_ more than he needs _me_. And what if this is it? What if that’s true? He’ll go off and start a new life without me, because he can, and he won’t need me. But I need him. I’ll have really lost him—” Harry breaks off on a choked breath.

He’s been heaving while speaking, he realises, sobbing down the phone and he’d barely noticed.

Then he hears Mum’s stern voice trying to get him to calm down. “Harry, come on, breathe. Deep breaths.” He tries but he can’t catch his breath. He sits up, sobbing. “Right, that’s it. I’m coming over.”

That seems to be what triggers Harry into grabbing back onto reality.

“No, it’s way too late. You’re not coming over,” he gets out hoarsely. Still sniffling. Still attempting to breathe normally as he tips his back on the headboard. He wipes his face with his hand, dabbing it with the duvet that hasn’t been washed.

“Harry…”

“I’m fine. I can wait until tomorrow. Please, Mum. I just had a moment. I’m just so tired and I’ve barely slept. I just. It’s hard not to feel so… all over the place right now.”

There’s more silence.

A sigh on the other end.

“I know.” A pause. “I’ll be at the hospital tomorrow, alright? And if you need me during the night, you call me? I love you. Get some sleep now, baby. You know you’ll always be my baby, don’t you? However big you get—”

“Mum, stop." He swallows hard. "You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“You'll both get through this. Louis’ always been a surprise and I have every faith he’ll be that this time.”

“Yeah,” Harry repeats, and he almost believes it. There’s every chance Louis will immediately want to wrap his arms around Harry as soon as his eyes meet his tomorrow.

So why is there such a deeply ingrained bad feeling in his gut?

He says goodnight to his mum and then wills sleep to take him.

*

Harry’s abruptly woken up by the buzz of a pointless celebrity news article on his phone, the sound louder since it’s placed on his nightstand.

He begrudgingly rolls over.

Right onto Louis’ side of the bed. On Harry’s left.

He pauses, blinks bleary, sleep-crusted eyes at the empty space, and slowly spreads his fingers, hand rubbing softly over the cold spot, a sharp, strong bout of longing washing over his limbs instantly, wishing he had Louis right here, soft and warm and sleepy, ready for morning cuddles, there for Harry to bury his face in his favourite place—the space between Louis’ neck and shoulder.

He screws his eyes shut and shoves his face into Louis’ pillow, listens to the thrash of wind and rain slamming against the window outside.

Which is just great. Really comforting.

Since it’s been mostly raining since Saturday. Harry idly wonders whether he should just take this as some kind of sick joke from the cosmos.

There’s one silver lining, though. He does seem to have gotten some sleep, however fretful that sleep was.

Okay. He can do this. He just has to stay positive.

Do it for Louis.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he whispers out loud. He repeats it a dozen times before he manages to force himself up and out of bed and heads to the kitchen to make some breakfast. “We’re gonna be alright.”

While his egg fries in the pan, he phones the school again, not able to return to work until he has an update on Louis’ condition. About all of it. Lost memory and all.

He turns the radio up loud to drown out his anxious thoughts and fortunately, it’s something upbeat and poppy. He absently sings along until his eggs are done, toast popping up just in time.

He wolfs it all down, chugs back three glasses of water and hops into the shower, feeling much more refreshed already.

*

His perky mood deflates as soon as he sees his mum already waiting in the corridor for him, face drawn like she’s just received bad news. She looks upset, arms around herself in that way she does when she’s defensively attempting to not look sad.

It always draws attention to the opposite, though.

It makes Harry’s blood feel like lead, his heart pounding at the implications.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hey,” she smiles, walking over to him and then pulling him into a hug, rubbing his arm when they break apart. “Did you sleep well? Please tell me you managed to get something—”

“I slept fine, Mum,” he assures.

“Oh, good,” she replies brightly, chirpy, even.

“Mum,” he urges lowly. “What is it? Is Louis—"

“He’s fine, son. Awake, chatty, smiling. I’ve just been in there. Jo and the girls are with him now. But, uh.” She pauses, bows her head for a moment, chewing on her lip.

“He didn’t know you, did he?” Harry says, hollow.

“No,” Mum smiles again, eyes gathering moisture. “No, he didn’t. That was tough. Louis looking at me like I’m a stranger. Polite as ever but. He just assumed I was a friend of Jo’s.”

Fuck.

Hope is dwindling.

Harry stares at her sadly, shattered. “Oh, Mum.” He hugs her close, buries his face in her hair as he squeezes her tight.

Someone clears their throat behind them.

They both turn.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Harry,” Dr Wells smiles considerately, that professional, kind smile that might help soften the blow of any bad news she has to deliver. “But I have an update on Louis’ condition.”

“Okay,” Harry nods, tries to smile weakly. He squeezes his mum’s hand. She squeezes it back.

“So, physically, Louis’ fine. He’s lucky. The MRI showed us the swelling on Louis’ brain has gone down and there seems to be no significant brain damage. Of course, it’s likely that he’ll experience some bad headaches, dizziness, nausea in the upcoming weeks, but other than that, I’m happy with how quickly Louis’ making a full recovery from such a traumatic blow to the head.”

Harry sighs in relief, the bigger question about Louis’ memory eating away at the back of his mind.

“Okay. Good. That’s good, that's great news,” he rambles, nodding almost erratically, both relief and dread flooding his body. His tongue feels like sandpaper, dipped in tar just to make it that more difficult to speak. “And his head, um. That’s all stitched up? How long do the bandages have to stay on for?”

“Well, to ward off any infections, the bandages need to stay on for the time being, but he'll heal quickly on the antibiotics. There might be some scarring, though once his hair grows back, that will all be hidden.”

“Alright," he nods, "when can I take him home?” He ignores the voice in the back of his head telling him Louis might not even want to go home with Harry, stomach as heavy as a ton of bricks at the thought of it. He could easily want to go home with Jo.

Harry should probably accept that already.

“We’d like to keep him in for now to run some more tests, monitor him a while longer, but if all goes well, Louis should be able to return home in a week.”

“Okay,” Harry nods, “is there anything else I need to stay on top of?”

“Look out for some long-term symptoms." Dr Wells folds her arms. "Difficultly performing daily tasks. Slower reactions. He may find he has some difficulty sleeping, problems with speech, alertness and co-ordination, fatigue, headaches that come on more often. He’ll need regular check-ups.”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“There may also be some mood changes. So don’t worry if Louis gets confused at times. But at the moment, Louis seems to be doing well on that front. And he may not experience many of these symptoms at all. It’s just so you know what you might expect with his recovery.”

“And… what about the amnesia?” Harry asks hesitantly, not being able to skirt around it any longer. “He didn’t know who I was yesterday and today he didn’t know my mum. It’s just temporary, right? There’s every chance everything could slowly come back to him? When he’s fully recovered, I mean.”

Dr Wells visibly swallows, obviously expecting the question. Harry squeezes his mum’s hand once more to ground himself, before he loses it completely.

“That’s a little more complicated,” she replies cautiously.

“How so?” Harry’s voice must sound like there’s something lodged in his throat.

“The frontal lobe of Louis’ brain, the part where long-term memory is stored? It’s been damaged. But the prefrontal cortex and the temporal lobe seem to be working, which means Louis’ short-term memory is still intact—”

Harry interrupts Dr Well’s fast paced speech, brows pulling together, his heart starting to beat erratically.

“But you said he hasn’t got any damage to his brain?”

“Louis’ responses and behaviours towards immediate information are all working normally and how he processes that information. But it’s his ability to retrieve parts of his long-term memory that has been… highly damaged. As is evident by Louis’ failure to recognise either you or your mother.”

Harry lets go of his mum’s hand, running both his hands restlessly through his hair.

“How likely is it that he’ll regain his memory?” Anne asks quietly.

Dr Wells smiles sympathetically. “The more time that passes, the less likely it is that Louis will regain the parts of his memory that he’s currently missing, and the more likely it is that Louis is suffering from retrograde amnesia.”

“That’s bad, right?” Harry replies mechanically.

“It’s usually caused by a violent blow to the head,” Dr Wells continues, “a traumatic brain injury caused from something like a car accident. But Louis wasn’t in a car accident, so there’s a _slightly_ higher chance of him regaining some of his memories.”

“But not everything,” Harry says blandly. He can feel his mum’s worried gaze.

“But the brain is unpredictable. We don’t know anything just yet, Harry. Louis could remember everything by next week, next month, or… it could take much longer. We’ll know more in the coming days and weeks.”

Mum’s staring up at the side of his face with concern.

But honestly, Harry doesn’t know to react. He just feels numb. Dazed. Like he hasn’t woken up yet from an overbearingly terrible nightmare.

It doesn’t feel real.

He needs to see Louis.

“Harry,” Dr Wells says.

Harry’s stunned gaze slides slowly back to hers.

“If you’re going to tell Louis about what he doesn’t remember, including yourself and your relationship, you should probably do that now, rather than later. It’s better that he has more time to process this now to avoid further confusion and emotional distress later.”

“He knows of you,” Mum says gently. “From uni. That’s a start.”

“So,” Harry breathes through a fresh bout of silent tears, “if I tell him everything he’s forgotten, he might start to piece things together?”

“Unfortunately, simply telling Louis what he doesn't remember won’t help to jog his memory. It has to happen on its own.”

“But how much time would that take?” Mum speaks for him.

“Well, every case is different, and I know that’s not a particularly useful phrase,” Dr Wells says, her brown eyes apologetic, her face a picture of sympathy, despite the fact she must have told hundreds upon hundreds of patients all kinds of bad news. “A spontaneous recovery could still happen. It just takes time.”

“Years. Never…” Harry looks down at his feet, not sure he wants to hear what he already knows.

“I’m sorry, Harry." She pauses, cautious. "There’s lots of psychological support and help available. I recommend you attend regular therapy sessions with or without Louis. I have some referrals you could try to start with? You have been through a traumatic experience yourself.”

Harry nods dazedly. “Yeah. I’ll do that. It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

Maybe if he repeats it enough, it’ll be true.

Through the blinds, Harry meets Louis’ blank but somewhat curious gaze.

His Louis.

“The main thing is that Louis gets the time to recover without added stress,” Doctor Wells continues, following Harry’s gaze. “He needs your support and patience. He needs to get back into his normal routine. And hopefully that will help him to get more settled, to be able to deal with this. So, if you’re also getting the help to deal with this emotionally, the better it will be for Louis.”

Now all Harry has to do is convince Louis that his home is with Harry.

*

While Mum gets them coffee at downstairs canteen, Harry hovers outside Louis’ room, trying to calm down, trying to gather himself so that he doesn’t scare Louis off him immediately upon entering and collapse into a blubbering mess.

Of course it doesn’t take long until Jo spots Harry through the blinds in the corridor, gesturing for him to join them all.

He wants to go inside. Every bone in his body wants to go straight to Louis, hold him, kiss his face all over.

But his stomach is churning. With nerves, and fear, and grief.

One part of him feels like he already has to mourn what’s been taken away from them, and then the other part, the hopeful side of him that’s saying _everything’s gonna be fine_, the sheer determined optimism and faith he has that things will be alright, wins out.

He looks at Jo, who’s sitting with Louis on the bed, his sisters crowded around him, bundled up in their coats and jackets. They seem quieter than usual, which is expected, but they’re all still talking, smiling, laughing occasionally at Louis’ half-hearted attempts at joking about the situation. And they’re happy to see their brother awake and, for the most part, unharmed, if you don’t focus on the bandages taped to the side of his head.

And then Harry’s gaze slides to Louis, who looks… overwhelmed, to say the least, probably freaked out at how big the twins are now, five years older than he remembers seeing them last.

Harry’s not sure what he expected.

That Louis’ memory would just reboot or something? That after a full night’s natural sleep, everything would just come back to him? That he’d remember he has someone who loves him more than breathing?

Harry’s stomach twists at the hesitant expression on Louis’ face. He seems well-rested, looks less peaky than he did yesterday, and Harry’s glad, but_ god_. He must be so, so confused, so out of his element. Feeling like he’s in the wrong place. Despite his entire family being right here, with him, beside him.

And yet, it must feel like there’s a gaping hole that’s keeping them at a distance.

Harry takes a deep breath, briefly closes his eyes, and puts his hand on the door knob.

The atmosphere immediately tenses as soon as Harry enters the room. The girls all smile at Harry, little nods and looks of reassurances, of support—he’s watched these girls grow up and he loves them as though they were his own sisters. He knows whatever happens next, not to take it personally.

Louis is their brother, their whole world. Just as he’s Harry’s world, too.

Shuffling further inside, awkward and rigid, his heart absolutely racing, he announces himself.

“Hey,” he feebly gives, mumbles the single word, not able to hold anyone’s gaze for long.

He goes straight to the far corner of the cramped off-white room, the air filled with the girls’ perfume and hair products, mixed with that distinctly stale hospital smell, and leans against the wall on Louis and Jo’s right, his palms flat on the wall.

“Darling, come over here,” Jo says, frowning at him, as if to say, ‘_Why are you all the way over there?’_

Harry opens his mouth but no words come out.

Jo holds out her hand. “Harry.”

“I—” Harry stutters, “I thought I’d give you guys some space.”

“You’re a part of this family, too, Harry,” Jo says, her voice verging on stern, adamant. “Come on. Come here.”

Harry flicks his uncertain gaze towards Louis.

Who’s already looking at him, staring at him with widened eyes. Blue eyes that are so crystal clear with curiosity, his expression slightly shy. He looks at Jo, who’s looking at Harry.

Harry can’t keep his eyes off him.

His eyes sting.

This is so wrong. It’s weird and unnatural. He can’t just go up to Louis and smother him with the affection Harry knows he would want.

He has no idea how to act now, how to go about any of this.

What’s too much? What’s too little?

How are you supposed to interact with someone who hasn’t got a single clue about all the things you’ve done together? Said to each other? How do you come to terms with the fact that, essentially, a stranger knows you in such intimate, personal ways that no one else does, and you can’t recall any of it ever happening?

It’s all so wrong.

“How are you feeling?” Harry manages to croak out, eyes on Louis.

Louis’ eyes jolt out of whatever reverie they were lost in, surprised that Harry’s directly acknowledging him, apparently. He shifts in the bed, tugs on the collar of his hospital gown, practically glaring at it like it's personally offended him.

Harry almost laughs. 

Almost.

“Uh, got a bit of a headache still,” he chuckles quietly, halfheartedly, “but otherwise fine. I think. It’s just a bit…” he gestures at everyone, “hard to deal with. Having missed so much. Well. No. I didn’t actually miss anything, did I? I just don’t remember any of it.” 

"No," Harry breathes.

Louis' face falls. Awkward. Picking at the crumpled white sheets in his lap.

Harry digs his teeth into his lip, his whole body itching to touch, to lay his own hands on Louis'.

He stares at the floor instead.

“Doesn’t remember the money he owes me either. Do you, Lou?” Lottie jokes. “Typical." The girls giggle, which cracks a smile out of Louis. "I have to say, this is a fucking dramatic way to get out of a debt you owe, Lou, even for you.”

Louis laughs, bows his head.

“Lottie,” Jo scolds, but she laughs too, “language, please.”

The girls laugh.

Harry huffs out a small laugh himself.

When he slides his gaze back to Louis, again Louis is staring back at him.

He looks away just as fast.

But Harry continues to watch Louis. He's attentive as ever, interacting with his sisters a little clumsily.

As if sensing he’s being stared at relentlessly by an unshaven weirdo looking worse for wear and with bloodshot eyes, Louis looks back up, meets Harry's gaze.

Without noticing, Harry seems to have gravitated towards the bed, his body pulling him subconsciously closer to wherever Louis is.

He feels a warm palm gently tug at his wrist.

“Hello, you,” Jo smiles, determined, and silently yanks him to her side, her arm cuddling around his waist like she always does, encouragement for Harry to crouch down with her, an automatic reaction as he settles against her side. 

"Hi," Harry smiles weakly.

"Hope you've eaten today," Jo says, "I've brought sandwiches along if you're peckish?" 

"Uh, I'm fine for now. Thanks Jo."

He looks at Louis, who's tracking them intently, expression mild at first, but then Jo leans in and kisses the spot on his exposed upper arm, just below his grey t-shirt’s sleeve. Louis' eyes flicker with interest, brows beginning to pinch until they’re outright furrowed. 

He meets Harry's gaze.

Harry looks away.

It must be weird for Louis to see. Louis only knows Harry in passing at this point, and here he is, being affectionate and familiar with his mother right in front of him and Harry’s not sure whether Jo is doing the right thing. Acting as normal with Harry. Because Is this just confusing him more? Or simply showing him straight away what the dynamics are. How Harry fits, how he belongs to them, as a part of his family.

“I’m getting pretty tired, actually,” Louis says suddenly, darting his stare away from where Jo is holding Harry.

Instantly, Harry feels guilty. But for what? Guilty for existing? How is he supposed to pretend that these people aren’t his loved ones, too?

Jo clearly doesn’t think Harry should keep his distance now.

Harry’s not so sure what the right thing to do is. Pray that Louis starts to recognise things and continue as normal? Leave him be? He's got no idea what he's supposed to do.

“I can leave now, if you want?” Harry says weakly, painfully aware how shaky and emotional his voice sounds. The girls’ whip their heads towards Harry, matching surprised and sad expressions on their faces.

“Don’t be silly,” Jo says before Louis can speak up.

“Mum,” Louis says soberly. “I _am _starting to get a headache now. Do you think you and the girls could come back and fill me in on more later?"

Harry tries to feel hurt that he's not included in that sentence, pressing his fingers hard into his bicep.

"Oh, of course, honey. If you’re sure—”

“I am.” Louis smiles, but it's not real.

Harry knows. He presses into his skin harder. “Yeah, I need to, um—” he begins awkwardly. “I need to sort some stuff out with the school, actually, so. I should be off now, too, anyway. The kids will be missing me. I need to show my face, I think," he rambles. "Let ‘em know I’m alive.”

“Kids?” Louis clips suddenly, blanching. "You... you have kids?"

Harry looks at Jo, who bites her lip.

Harry nods lightly. "Well, I’m a teacher? Primary school. I've never had a day off from them, so... Yeah. Kind of,” he smiles.

“Oh,” Louis breathes. His cheeks are red, his guarded eyes softening ever so slightly. “Right. You’re a teacher. Yeah," he shakes his head. "Mum mentioned.”

Did Louis…

Did he think that he and Harry have children?

“I can come back later as well," Harry suggests slowly, a new bud of encouragement blooming in his gut. "If you want?” he tacks on the end, suddenly hot.

“Sure,” Louis says quickly, refusing to meet his eyes.

Right.

Harry's brows pinch. He looks away again.

“Alright, then, troops,” Jo claps, a bit too enthusiastically. Harry jumps. “Let’s go into town, shall we? Get some bits. Harry, love," she says, standing up and hugging him. Harry meets Louis' intent stare over Jo's shoulder. "Call me later, will you?"

"'course," Harry murmurs.

Louis frowns.

"Okay, so, might see you later, then," Harry announces to the room, eager to get out first and just scream in his car, to be honest.

"Yeah," Louis replies suddenly, sitting up, like he's decided something. "Um. I'd like to talk to you properly later, actually. If that's... okay?"

"Yeah, of course it is. Definitely," Harry answers eagerly, feeling his cheeks warm. Fuck, it's like they've just met again.

"Okay." Louis gives him a half-smile and Harry's world slows down. "Bye."

"Yeah, bye," Harry smiles back, as his family crowds around him.

Maybe it's all gonna be okay.

*

In the end, Harry dropped into school at break time, immediately met with a gaggle of his pupils bundled up in their coats, crowding around him excitedly and telling him that they missed him. They're probably more excited that it’s a Thursday and they get to choose an activity for an hour after break, along with the weekend coming up, but Harry likes to think it’s mostly about seeing him.

It seems to be, anyway, judging by their squeals of delight.

It does wonders for Harry's ego. He even finds himself grinning.

Mr Styles. Everyone's favourite teacher. He wears that non-existent tagline with pride.

Max makes a beeline for Harry, going straight for his legs, and actually smiles up at him, the sun out at last, despite feeling chilly.

Harry nearly cries right there in the middle of the playground.

“Hello, Max. How are you?” He gently pries the boy off him, instead crouching down to his level. “How’s your reading going?”

Max merely nods. “Yeah,” he says, succinct as ever.

Harry smiles, a puff of air escaping past his lips. “Good.”

“We missed you, Mr Styles,” they all scream in unison, several others in his class running over to him, squealing.

Harry feels instant relief. Lighter. It’s good to be back at school.

“Thanks, you lot. I missed you, too,” he laughs wetly. Zayn’s now stood beside him; hands shoved deep in the pockets of his long dark coat. He smirks at him.

“Been driving me up the wall, they have,” Zayn murmurs, quiet enough that the kids can’t hear.

Feeling a grin come on, Harry lets himself relax for the first time in days. He stands up, placing his hands on his hips. “I hope you’ve all been on your best behaviour for Mr Malik, here. He’s been doing me a big favour while I’ve been away. I hope you’ve all been kind to him.”

He lifts his eyebrows and chin up faux haughtily for good measure, putting on his best teacher voice.

“Yes, Mr Styles,” they all grin, again in unison.

Harry shakes his head, laughing.

“They’re good kids, just… chatty,” Zayn says, mouth twisted. “And that Jamie. God, I think he’s turned me grey. The kid doesn’t sit still. Off like a rocket.”

“Yeah,” Harry snorts, feeling a fierce affection for his kids. Well, they’re not_ his_. But they feel that way sometimes. Harry’s grown attached to them this past year. Amazed at how fast they’ve grown, how much progress they’ve made.

He’s immensely proud of these clever little monsters. (He says that with great affection, of course.)

“Jamie’s a lot to get used to. Smart kid, though," Harry smiles, crossing his arms.

"Are you coming back soon, Mr Styles?" Rana asks, big brown doe eyes pleading.

Zayn glances at him, smirk wiped off. 

"Uh, not just yet."

"But when?" Max asks quietly, bottom lip all but protruding.

"Soon, okay?" 

The kids seem to accept it, seem to all really like Zayn as their supply teacher for now, and they happily skip off to play after saying their goodbyes to Harry.

"Listen," Zayn says, expression serious, eyes concerned, "if you need anything, Liam and I are here for you. So's Niall. You know that. Don't be an idiot and start pretending you're fine with all this, yeah? We're here when you need to talk. Cry. Let out whatever you want."

Harry loves his friends.

He clears his throat, thick with emotion.

"I do know that," Harry breathes, shuddering out an exhale. "Thank you, Zayn."

"Let us know. We'll visit the hospital on Saturday. Maybe seeing us all together in the same room might trigger something?"

"I'm not sure it works that way, but that'd be great. Yeah."

"Keep us updated, yeah?"

"And you with the kids. If there's anything you need to know about any of them. But Leah's there too, so."

Zayn nods, patting his back softly.

Harry stands there a moment longer, watching Zayn walk over to Ella and Max. He waves at them, feeling overcome suddenly when they excitedly wave back.

*

Harry’s momentary relaxed demeanour is disturbed once he gets back to the hospital that evening and is startled awake. He came back to find Louis sleeping, and Jo had called him saying that she and the girls would be back tomorrow now after spending more of the afternoon with Louis, so Harry decided he’d chance a drop by, hoping Louis would still want to see him.

“What? What happened?” Harry asks immediately, shooting upright from where he’s been curled into himself on one of the scratchy and uncomfortable sofas in the hospital waiting room, apparently having dozed off himself.

He blinks in the harsh artificial lighting, his heart violently beating inside his chest, which hasn’t stopped doing so since Saturday night, really. Apart from earlier at the school, that gentle welcome reprieve of not feeling like he has to worry for five minutes, it’s like his mind and body are on alert mode at all times, going to pieces with all this anxiety and dread that Louis isn’t alright.

It takes a moment for him to register the gentle weight against his upper arm, thumb pressed softly into his flesh.

He looks up to see Louis, soft and rumpled, a warm expression on his sleep-creased face. He’s changed into a dark green oversized sweatshirt and he looks exactly like he would at home, if it weren’t for the stitches above his right eyebrow and the bandages covering that side of his hair.

Harry’s stomach swoops, chest tightening. “Hey,” he says, a bit winded. He coughs into his fist and sits up, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Louis says sheepishly, taking a step back and keeps his hands to himself.

“Oh, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. Um—are you okay?” Harry eyes him closely.

“Yeah,” Louis waves him off. “I was just thinking. Um. Can we talk?”

Harry stares at him. “Yeah…” he drawls. “Of course. What—um—did you want to—"

“I just,” Louis cuts in, “have some questions.”

Louis’ curiously, cautiously watching Harry’s face, as though he could spook Harry with any wrong footing. Like he’s some timid woodland creature or something that has to be treated with gentleness, no sudden movements.

“If… that’s okay?” he asks slowly, tilting his head to one side, keeping his distance.

Harry suppresses a snort at Louis’ wariness. He probably heard Harry running his mouth off hysterically after he realised Louis didn’t have his memories.

He feels strangely exposed at the thought of it, despite Louis having seen Harry at every emotion and mood possible.

“And… I thought you might be the best person to help me with that, since last I knew, I was still in my last year of uni. So.” He chuckles, nervously. An awkward grin. His cheeks reddening.

The amnesia is still ongoing, then. He’s still a practical stranger to his own fiancé, to the man he loves. Who, only a few days ago, loved Harry just as much.

With a painful clench of his heart, Harry just blinks up at him, exhausted eyes tracking Louis’ surprisingly calm stance, dressed in this sweatshirt and a pair of Adidas tracksuit bottoms that Harry bought him for Christmas last year. His feet are bare and Harry wants to scold him for not putting slippers on. Yeah, they’re in a hospital, but the floor could still be crawling with sick people’s germs.

“Um, yeah, sure,” Harry rasps, voice gruff from disuse. "What did... what do you want to know?"

“Thanks. Uh—” Louis points to the sofa. “Can I sit?”

“Go ahead,” Harry replies. He opts for sitting upright abruptly and stretches his back. His shirt rides up, revealing a bit of his belly, and doesn’t miss the way it takes Louis’ gaze 0.01 seconds to find it. It sends a kind of briefly detached and unfamiliar thrill down his spine. Like he’s flirting with a stranger.

Harry tugs his shirt down, face hot, feeling a flash of guilt. He makes his mouth form odd shapes to disguise how uncomfortable he feels.

It’s like he’s driving blind; he has no idea how to approach this. How to simply string a sentence together, talk to Louis like he’s a just another person.

Not his person. Not his fiancé. Not the love of his life.

Louis’ eyes flick away, caught, embarrassed. He blushes and Harry feels so fucking devastated. It’s like he’s been dropped at random into his own timeline, the backstory and experiences scrubbed dry. Gone. They haven’t happened yet.

Nothing that matters exists yet.

But Louis’ still attracted to Harry, at least. It doesn’t send much reassurance Harry’s way. He just feels… numb, and so painfully awkward as Louis cautiously sits down on the scratchy blue sofa next to him, leaving enough room for Jesus.

Harry's hands are gripping each of his knees for dear life.

Because.

Louis looks perfectly fine, healthy, capable—apart from the stack of bandages wrapped around his head, the stitches and a yellowing bruise on his cheekbone that's he now noticing in this light. Harry can’t stop staring at the spot, imagining the damaged areas of his brain, resenting an organ for wiping away every trace of Harry that mattered to Louis, every part that was important.

Sounds stupid, really, that Harry has such anger toward human tissue for not doing its job right.

It’s Louis’ turn to stare now. “Well. This, is, uh… weird.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, smiling wryly as he breaks eye contact. There isn’t a word for how bizarre and awful this feels.

“You just look… much… older.”

“Did you see me around much, then?” Harry asks, curious about what Louis knows of Harry from back then. He’s not sure Louis ever said when exactly he started noticing Harry was at Niall’s parties

“Um, in passing, like. Not much. We’ve never really talked before." Louis pauses, eyes searching the side of Harry's face. Harry holds his breath, grips his knees tighter.

"I didn’t recognise you at first, because, well. You had such a baby face, such a big head of curly hair. Absolutely no facial hair like the fuzz you’re sporting now.”

Harry laughs. "Yeah, I don't shave as much now that I can actually grow it."

"Suits you, though," Louis smiles, "light stubble, that is," he corrects. Smirks.

"Right," Harry finds himself grinning. Then it's gone. Louis does prefer less of it. Likes to rub his own against Harry's soft cheeks, make them red with hard kisses.

He swallows thickly, briefly closes his eyes.

When he opens them, Louis is watching him.

Harry shifts on the sofa. “Uh, so, what do you want to know first?”

"Well. How long have we been together?"

"Hasn't your mum already told you?" Harry smiles weakly.

"She's told me who you are, yeah. And. Well." Louis itches a spot by his ear. He's nervous. "When I’ve asked about_ you_, it’s like… Mum, the girls, they're avoiding mentioning any specifics." He searches Harry's face closely. Harry nods slowly. "No one wants to tread on your toes, I guess? They think you should be the one to tell me about... _us..._ and I mean, that makes sense, right? You being my... long-term—uh, partner? Is that..." Harry nods again, mouth quirking involuntarily. "And, um… yeah. So. I’m asking _you_ now. Because you know the most, don't you? Well, I mean—obviously, you do. Who else would know?”

And now he's rambling.

Harry knows Louis rambles when he’s nervous, or unsure, has to keep talking to distract from the fact.

"Yeah, I'd agree I'm the most qualified to inform you on this particular subject," Harry jokes, smiling. Hoping that if he comes across as relaxed compared to how Louis saw him when he woke up, that it will put him at ease. Louis, when comfortable, is an addicting, overwhelmingly soothing force.

"Right, so you can help me fill in the gaps." Louis smiles. "Thanks."

"You don't have to thank me... for that," Harry says quietly.

_I need you to remember. _

Louis half-smiles awkwardly, turning his head and bowing it, shy, sheepish. “Right, yeah. I just thought—I didn’t want to upset you anymore than I have already by asking you things I should know...” He pauses. “Even though this feels so… surreal to me. Having you as my… It’s just not what I was expecting when I woke up from a coma, you know?”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, throat working as he swallows. He starts to play with his own fingers again. Soft. Every move he makes mesmerising. He can be doing the most mundane, boring thing in the world, and still Harry’s favourite thing to do is just watch him exist.

Harry can’t take his eyes off him.

He wills himself not to cry again, heart crunching painfully inside his battered chest, like someone’s taken a cheese grater to it, slicing away the tissue and flesh and creating a million fissures that gape like throbbing wounds.

He coughs into his fist, blinking back another onslaught of conflicting emotions.

Louis looks at him worriedly. “Are you—” he starts to ask.

“Fine,” Harry interrupts briskly.

Louis nods. Harry feels shit.

His mouth makes a slick noise as he distractedly sucks the inside of his cheek.

“So, we were friends first. For a bit, but we were… very into each other from the day we met. We didn’t exactly hide it,” Harry smiles crookedly at the memories of them shamelessly flirting with each other, and hands, hands, hands. “I caught an instant crush on you, basically followed you around like an overeager puppy.”

Louis huffs a laugh. “Followed me after we met, though, yeah?”

It makes Harry smile. “Yeah,” he laughs quietly. “I was a first-year student, and you were in your last year, obviously.”

Louis nods, leaning in ever so slightly, closer. Harry forces himself to not let his breath hitch, biting down on his lip harshly. He kneads his hands instead. Anything to stop himself from reaching out for Louis and ruining this apparent progress they’re already making. With making things a bit less awkward, that is.

“We, uh, met just before the Easter break. You asked me out to eat at Cremes and we stayed until closing and… yeah. We became friends immediately. We just… clicked.”

Louis bows his head, training his eyes on a section of the waiting room’s floor.

He looks contemplative, a little sad, even.

Harry frowns, chest suddenly growing tight again. He clears his throat and Louis looks up, training his intense blue gaze on Harry’s fragile self. "Are you okay? We can stop if this is too much."

"No, it's fine. Keep going. Please." Louis doesn't look up.

It goes quiet.

_Keep going_, he said. 

Harry doesn't say anything.

“How long’s it gonna be until we officially meet? Like, actually talk properly for once,” Louis wonders aloud, breaking the silence. “In my head, I mean. Or my timeline… or whatever.” He frowns, jaw clenching.

Harry stares at him, imploring.

Louis still won't look at him.

“Well, we'll have... Uh. We've been together for almost five years now," Harry stammers out. "But the twenty-eighth of March is when we first properly met at a party. Held a conversation and all that,” he pauses, coughs to hide the emotion climbing up it, but his voice gives him away. It’s shaking. 

Their wedding date.

Harry doesn’t know what to think or feel about it now.

He looks back up to find Louis staring at him now, eyes serious but soft, and eager. Eager to take it all in.

It stirs a sense of hope in Harry.

At least.

“So... right now, then. At this point in time, technically, you already have a crush on me,” Louis comments, a tiny smirk quirking the corner of his mouth. "In my world."

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m… pining after you from afar at this point,” Harry finds himself smiling, albeit watery.

"Right," Louis grins.

Harry chuckles. This hurts like hell, but hope is really digging its heels in Harry’s chest right now.

“So how did we cross the line from friends to… more?” Louis asks, genuinely sounding curious.

“Well, the friends thing didn't last more than a few weeks, actually," Harry smirks. "And uh, it didn’t take long before we… went further." He blushes, feeling his cheeks burn. Jesus. He's talking to Louis. How can he possibly feel embarrassed about their sex life? "And we dated, exclusively, for about five months before we made it official. Like, had the boyfriend conversation, I mean."

Louis lifts an eyebrow. "That long?"

“I know,” Harry chuckles lightly. “It was just… we were at uni and it was your last year, and we were both scared of making it more... permanent, I guess, even though we both knew it was that, and that we wanted it to be and we said as much. We basically were, but because you were gonna be finishing uni and we weren’t sure about what was next, we were... well, yeah. But, um. It was during the summer that we decided we’d make a proper go of it. For the long haul.”

Louis nods slowly. “And I ended up as a teacher, too, did I?”

“For a bit," Harry says. "You’re, um… not teaching anymore, though. Your first love’s music so you’re pursuing that right now, and you’re doing really well.”

Incredulity contorts Louis’ face. “Really?” His voice is doubtful. 

“No, it’s—it makes you happy. And I’m so… I was… I mean, I _am_ so proud of you. It’s a struggle sometimes, I won’t lie about that, but we manage. We made it work because we wanted it to.” Harry coughs, tries to get rid of the emotion pooling behind his eyes. “It worked.”

“I hope I'd earned enough savings, at least, before I just basically dumped my job in.”

“We cope, it’s fine. You wanted it badly enough, and it’s going well so far. You have a Spotify page. You should check it out. The amount of streams you have is pretty decent for someone who isn't signed."

"So, I don't teach at all now?" Louis squints, not seeming happy about it.

"You worked part-time at the same school I work at for a while, but no, you haven't been at the moment. You've got no problem filling in if things go pear-shaped, though."

Louis exhales, sitting back. "Well. Never thought I'd do something like that, to be honest. I mean. I want to. i always wanted to sing, but." He frowns, shakes head, putting his face in his hands.

Alarm shoots through Harry's tired body. "Louis?"

"I'm fine," Louis says immediately, rubbing his temples. "It's just weird. This is weird, right?"

"It's pretty fucking weird, yeah," Harry says honestly.

Louis lets out a short laugh, It sounds bitter. Upset. He grimaces. "Yeah. Shit. Just... looking at you, knowing I just... see you around now and then, this little, but long-limbed, lanky kid with curly hair... and all this charming energy." He huffs, smirking ruefully. "That that kid is you. Knowing that we'll end up... That you're this massive part of my life now. I guess, I just never thought it." 

"Neither did I," Harry laughs wetly, pain flooding his veins. Fuck. He misses him. He misses his Louis. And yet... he's right here. He looks the same, sounds the same.

He doesn't look at Harry the same.

"Sorry, I, uh. Maybe we should pause this? I need to... I think I need to go."

Harry stands up, pushing his hair back.

Louis remains seated, staring up at him, surprised. "Okay. Um. Are you coming back soon or?" Maybe Harry's imagining it, but Louis sounds a bit desperate.

"Obviously," Harry says. "I mean, only if you want me to." It hurts to say it. To ask if Louis even wants him back here.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," Louis says quietly, sliding his eyes away, shoulders stiff. He stands too, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Harry nods, relieved he still wants to see him. "I'm probably gonna go back to work next week. I'll drop in here in the evenings, though, yeah? And... when you're okay to be discharged, we'll discuss what's happening with, um." _Your living situation_, is what he doesn't say. "We'll see what's next."

"Sounds good," Louis replies blandly, staring ahead, past Harry's shoulder. He seems to have paled significantly. 

"Okay." Harry turns to leave, facing the door.

"Harry?" 

Harry turns around, heart beating wildly in his throat. "Yeah?" 

Louis stares at him a moment, eyes searching. "Thank you for... I don't know." He shakes his head, looking lost. "I can't imagine how hard this must be for you. I mean, if I'm struggling with this, I can't begin to..." he sighs, defeated. He looks exhausted, eyes puffy. "Just, uh... Yeah."

Harry gives him the most reassuring smile he can muster, despite feeling like that tiny flame of hope in his heart has been doused. "We'll be alright. Okay?"

"Right," Louis nods. He doesn't sound convinced in the slightest. 

Harry gives him another weaker smile and doesn't let himself cry until he gets to the end of the corridor.

**Author's Note:**

> you can reblog the fic post [here](https://twoheartsbeating.tumblr.com/post/184177065256/the-gold-soaked-afternoon-comes-slow-by) on my tumblr :)


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